la 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


Come  Rack !  Come  Rope ! 


Come  Rack!  Come  Rope! 


BY 
ROBERT  HUGH  BENSON 

Author  of  "  By  What  Authority  ?  "  "  The  Kiny'i  Achievement," 
"Lord  of  the  World,"  etc. 


New  York 
P.  J.  Kenedy  &  Sons 


COPTBIOHT,  1912,  BT 

DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


6.3V- 


PRINTED  m  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

VERY  nearly  the  whole  of  this  book  is  sober  historical  fact; 
and  by  far  the  greater  number  of  the  personages  named  in 
it  once  lived  and  acted  in  the  manner  in  which  I  have  pre- 
sented them.  My  hero  and  my  heroine  are  fictitious;  so 
also  are  the  parents  of  my  heroine,  the  father  of  my  hero, 
one  lawyer,  one  woman,  two  servants,  a  farmer  and  his  wife, 
the  landlord  of  an  inn,  and  a  few  other  entirely  negligible 
characters.  But  the  family  of  the  FitzHerberts  passed 
precisely  through  the  fortunes  which  I  have  described;  they 
had  their  confessors  and  their  one  traitor  (as  I  have  said). 
Mr.  Anthony  Babington  plotted,  and  fell,  in  the  manner  that 
is  related;  Mary  languished  in  Chartley  under  Sir  Amyas 
Paulet;  was  assisted  by  Mr.  Bourgoign;  was  betrayed  by 
her  secretary  and  Mr.  Gifford,  and  died  at  Fotheringay; 
Mr.  Garlick  and  Mr.  Ludlam  and  Mr.  Simpson  received 
their  vocations,  passed  through  their  adventures ;  were 
captured  at  Padley,  and  died  in  Derby.  Father  Campion 
(from  whose  speech  after  torture  the  title  of  the  book 
is  taken)  suffered  on  the  rack  and  was  executed  at  Tyburn. 
Mr.  Topcliffe  tormented  the  Catholics  that  fell  into  his 
hands1;  plotted  with  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert,  and  bar- 
gained for  Padley  (which  he  subsequently  lost  again)  on 
the  terms  here  drawn  out.  My  Lord  Shrewsbury  rode 
about  Derbyshire,  directed  the  search  for  recusants  and 
presided  at  their  deaths ;  priests  of  all  kinds  came  and  went 
in  disguise;  Mr.  Owen  went  about  constructing  hiding- 
holes  ;  Mr.  Bassett  lived  defiantly  at  Langleys,  and  dabbled 
A  little  (I  am  afraid)  in  occultism;  Mr.  Fenton  was  often 
to  be  found  in  Hathersage — all  these  things  took  place 


2037944 


^  PREFACE 

as  nearly  as  I  have  had  the  power  of  relating  them.  Two 
localities  only,  I  think,  are  disguised  under  their  names — 
Booth's  Edge  and  Matstead.  Padley,  or  rather  the  chapel 
in  which  the  last  mass  was  said  under  the  circumstances 
described  in  this  book,  remains,  to  this  day,  close  to  Grindle- 
ford  Station.  A  Catholic  pilgrimage  is  made  there  every 
year;  and  I  have  myself  once  had  the  honour  of  preaching 
on  such  an  occasion,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  old  hall 
that  is  immediately  beneath  the  chapel  where  Mr.  Garlick 
and  Mr.  Ludlam  said  their  last  masses,  and  were  cap- 
tured. If  the  book  is  too  sensational,  it  is  no  more  sensa- 
tional than  life  itself  was  to  Derbyshire  folk  between  1579 
and  1588. 

It  remains  only,  first,  to  express  my  extreme  indebted- 
ness to  Dom  Bede  Camm's  erudite  book — "  Forgotten 
Shrines  " — from  which  I  have  taken  immense  quantities 
of  information,  and  to  a  pile  of  some  twenty  to  thirty 
other  books  that  are  before  me  as  I  write  these  words ;  and, 
secondly,  to  ask  forgiveness  from  the  distinguished  family 
that  takes  its  name  from  the  FitzHerberts  and  is  descended 
from  them  directly;  and  to  assure  its  members  that  old 
Sir  Thomas,  Mr.  John,  Mr.  Anthony,  and  all  the  rest, 
down  to  the  present  day,  outweigh  a  thousand  times  over 
(to  the  minds  of  all  decent  people)  the  stigma  of  Mr. 
Thomas'  name.  Even  the  apostles  numbered  one  Judas  f 

ROBERT   HUGH   BENSON. 

Featt  of  the  Blessed  Thomas  More,  1912. 
Hare  Street  House,  Buntingford. 


PARTI 


CHAPTER  I 


THERE  should  be  no  sight  more  happy  than  a  young  man 
riding  to  meet  his  love.  His  eyes  should  shine,  his  lips 
should  sing;  he  should  slap  his  mare  upon  her  shoulder 
and  call  her  his  darling.  The  puddles  upon  his  way  should 
be  turned  to  pure  gold,  and  the  stream  that  runs  beside 
him  should  chatter  her  name. 

Yet,  as  Robin  rode  to  Marjorie  none  of  these  things  were 
done.  It  was  a  still  day  of  frost ;  the  sky  was  arched  above 
him,  across  the  high  hills,  like  that  terrible  crystal  which  is 
the  vault  above  which  sits  God — hard  blue  from  horizon 
to  horizon;  the  fringe  of  feathery  birches  stood  like  fili- 
gree-work above  him  on  his  left;  on  his  right  ran  the 
Derwent,  sucking  softly  among  his  sedges;  on  this  side 
and  that  lay  the  flat  bottom  through  which  he  went — 
meadowland  broken  by  rushes;  his  mare  Cecily  stepped 
along,  now  cracking  the  thin  ice  of  the  little  pools  with 
her  dainty  feet,  now  going  gently  over  peaty  ground,  blow- 
ing thin  clouds  from  her  red  nostrils,  yet  unencouraged  by 
word  or  caress  from  her  rider;  who  sat,  heavy  and  all  but 
slouching,  staring  with  his  blue  eyes  under  puckered  eye- 
lids, as  if  he  went  to  an  appointment  which  he  would  not 
keep. 

Yet  he  was  a  very  pleasant  lad  to  look  upon,  smooth- 
faced and  gallant,  mounted  and  dressed  in  a  manner  that 
should  give  any  lad  joy.  He  wore  great  gauntlets  on  his 
hands;  he  was  in  his  habit  of  green;  he  had  his  steel- 
buckled  leather  belt  upon  him  beneath  his  cloak  and  a  pair 
of  daggers  in  it,  with,  his  long-sword  looped  up ;  he  had  his 

3 


4       COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

felt  hat  on  his  head,  buckled  again,  and  decked  with  half  a 
pheasant's  tail;  he  had  his  long  boots  of  undressed  leather, 
that  rose  above  his  knees ;  and  on  his  left  wrist  sat  his  grim 
falcon  Agnes,  hooded  and  belled,  not  because  he  rode  after 
game,  but  from  mere  custom,  and  to  give  her  the  air. 

He  was  meeting  his  first  man's  trouble. 

Last  year  he  had  said  good-bye  to  Derby  Grammar 
School — of  old  my  lord  Bishop  Durdant's  foundation — • 
situated  in  St.  Peter's  churchyard.  Here  he  had  done  the 
right  and  usual  things;  he  had  learned  his  grammar;  he 
had  fought;  he  had  been  chastised;  he  had  robed  the  effigy 
of  his  pious  founder  in  a  patched  doublet  with  a  saucepan 
on  his  head  (but  that  had  been  done  before  he  had  learned 
veneration) — and  so  had  gone  home  again  to  Matstead. 
proficient  in  Latin,  English,  history,  writing,  good  man- 
ners and  chess,  to  live  with  his  father,  to  hunt,  to  hear 
mass  when  a  priest  was  within  reasonable  distance,  to 
indite  painful  letters  now  and  then  on  matters  of  the  estate, 
and  to  learn  how  to  bear  himself  generally  as  should  one 
of  Master's  rank — the  son  of  a  gentleman  who  bore  arms, 
and  his  father's  father  before  him.  He  dined  at  twelve, 
he  supped  at  six,  he  said  his  prayers,  and  blessed  himself 
when  no  strangers  were  by.  He  was  something  of  a  herb- 
alist, as  a  sheer  hobby  of  his  own;  he  went  to  feed  his 
falcons  in  the  morning,  he  rode  with  them  after  dinner 
(from  last  August  he  had  found  himself  riding  north  more 
often  than  south,  since  Marjorie  lived  in  that  quarter)  ;  and 
now  all  had  been  crowned  last  Christmas  Eve,  when  in  the 
enclosed  garden  at  her  house  he  had  kissed  her  two  hands 
suddenly,  and  made  her  a  little  speech  he  had  learned  by 
heart;  after  which  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips  as  a  man 
should,  in  the  honest  noon  sunlight. 

All  this  was  as  it  should  be.  There  were  no  doubts  or 
disasters  anywhere.  Marjorie  was  an  only  daughter  as  he 


COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE!        5 

an  only  son.  Her  father,  it  is  true,  was  but  a  Derby  law- 
yer, but  he  and  his  wife  had  a  good  little  estate  above  the 
Hathersage  valley,  and  a  stone  house  in  it.  As  for  religion, 
that  was  all  well  too.  Master  Manners  was  as  good  a 
Catholic  as  Master  Audrey  himself;  and  the  families  met 
at  mass  perhaps  as  much  as  four  or  five  times'  in  the  year, 
either  at  Padley,  where  Sir  Thomas'  chapel  still  had 
priests  coming  and  going;  sometimes  at  Dethick  in  the 
Babingtons'  barn;  sometimes  as  far  north  as  Hare- 
wood. 

And  now  a  man's  trouble  was  come  upon  the  boy.  The 
cause  of  it  was  as  follows. 

Robin  Audrey  was  no  more  religious  than  a  boy  of 
seventeen  should  be.  Yet  he  had  had  as  few  doubts  about 
the  matter  as  if  he  had  been  a  monk.  His  mother  had 
taught  him  well,  up  to  the  time  of  her  death  ten  years  ago; 
and  he  had  learned  from  her,  as  well  as  from  his  father 
when  that  professor  spoke  of  it  at  all,  that  there  were  two 
kinds  of  religion  in  the  world,  the  true  and  the  false — that 
is  to  say,  the  Catholic  religion  and  the  other  one.  Cer- 
tainly there  were  shades  of  differences  in  the  other  one;  the 
Turk  did  not  believe  precisely  as  the  ancient  Roman,  nor 
yet  as  the  modern  Protestant — yet  these  distinctions  were 
subtle  and  negligible;  they  were  all  swallowed  up  in  an 
unity  of  falsehood.  Next  he  had  learned  that  the  Catholic 
religion  was  at  present  blown  upon  by  many  persons  in 
high  position ;  that  pains  and  penalties  lay  upon  all  who 
adhered  to  it.  Sir  Thomas  Fitz  Herbert,  for  instance,  lay 
now  in  the  Fleet  in  London  on  that  very  account.  His  own 
father,  too,  three  or  four  times  in  the  year,  was  unde* 
necessity  of  paying  over  heavy  sums  for  the  privilege  of 
not  attending  Protestant  worship;  and,  indeed,  had  been 
forced  last  year  to  sell  a  piece  of  land  over  on  Lees  Moor 
fur  this  very  purpose.  Priests  came  and  went  at  their 


6        COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

peril.  ...  He  himself  had  fought  two  or  three  battles 
over  the  affair  in  St.  Peter's  churchyard,  until  he  had 
learned  to  hold  his  tongue.  But  all  this  was  just  part  of 
the  game.  It  seemed  to  him  as  inevitable  and  eternal  as 
the  changes  of  the  weather.  Matstead  Church,  he  knew, 
had  once  been  Catholic;  but  how  long  ago  he  did  not  care 
to  inquire.  He  only  knew  that  for  a  while  there  had  been 
some  doubt  on  the  matter;  and  that  before  Mr.  Barton's 
time,  who  was  now  minister  there,  there  had  been  a  proper 
priest  in  the  place,  who  had  read  English  prayers  there 
and  a  sort  of  a  mass,  which  he  had  attended  as  a  little  boy. 
Then  this  had  ceased ;  the  priest  had  gone  and  Mr.  Barton 
come,  and  since  that  time  he  had  never  been  to  church 
there,  but  had  heard  the  real  mass  wherever  he  could  with 
a  certain  secrecy.  And  there  might  be  further  perils  in 
future,  as  there  might  be  thunderstorms  or  floods.  There 
was  still  the  memory  of  the  descent  of  the  Commissioners 
a  year  or  two  after  his  birth;  he  had  been  brought  up  on 
the  stories  of  riding  and  counter-riding,  and  the  hiding 
away  of  altar-plate  and  beads  and  vestments.  But  all 
this  was  in  his  bones'  and  blood;  it  was  as  natural  that 
professors  of  the  false  religion  should  seek  to  injure  and 
distress  professors  of  the  true,  as  that  the  foxes  should  at- 
tack the  poultry-yard.  One  took  one's  precautions,  one 
hoped  for  the  best;  and  one  was  quite  sure  that  one  day 
the  happy  ancient  times  his  mother  had  told  him  of  would 
come  back,  and  Christ's  cause  be  vindicated. 

And  now  the  foundations  of  the  earth  were  moved  and 
heaven  reeled  above  him;  for  his  father,  after  a  month  or 
two  of  brooding,  had  announced,  on  St.  Stephen's  Day, 
that  he  could  tolerate  it  no  longer;  that  God's  demands 
were  unreasonable;  that,  after  all,  the  Protestant  religion 
was  the  religion  of  her  Grace,  that  men  must  learn  to  move 
with  the  times,  and  that  he  had  paid  his  last  fine.  A* 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  7 

Easter,  he  observed,  he  would  take  the  bread  and  wine  in 
Matstead  Church,  and  Robin  would  take  them  too. 


II 

The  sun  stood  half-way  towards  his  setting  as  Robin  rode 
tip  from  the  valley,  past  Padley,  over  the  steep  ascent 
that  led  towards  Booth's  Edge.  The  boy  was  brighter  a 
little  as  he  came  up;  he  had  counted  above  eighty  snipe 
within  the  last  mile  and  a  half,  and  he  was  coming  near  to 
Marjorie.  About  him,  rising  higher  as  he  rose,  stood  the 
great  low-backed  hills.  Cecily  stepped  out  more  sharply, 
snuffing  delicately,  for  she  knew  her  way  well  enough  by 
now,  and  looked  for  a  feed;  and  the  boy's  perplexities 
stood  off  from  him  a  little.  Matters  must  surely  be  better 
so  soon  as  Marjorie's  clear  eyes  looked  upon  them. 

Then  the  roofs  of  Padley  disappeared  behind  him,  and 
he  saw  the  smoke  going  up  from  the  little  timbered  Hall, 
standing  back  against  its  bare  wind-blown  trees. 

A  great  clatter  and  din  of  barking  broke  out  as  the  mare's 
hoofs  sounded  on  the  half-paved  space  before  the  great 
door;  and  then,  in  the  pause,  a  gaggling  of  geese,  solemn 
and  earnest,  from  out  of  sight.  Jacob  led  the  outcry,  a 
great  mastiff,  chained  by  the  entrance,  of  the  breed  of 
which  three  are  set  to  meet  a  bear  and  four  a  lion.  Then 
two  harriers  whipped  round  the  corner,  and  a  terrier's 
head  showed  itself  over  the  wall  of  the  herb-garden  on  the 
left,  as  a  man,  bareheaded,  in  his  shirt  and  breeches,  ran 
out  suddenly  with  a  thonged  whip,  in  time  to  meet  a  pair 
of  spaniels  in  full  career.  Robin  sat  his  horse  silently  till 
peace  was  restored,  his  right  leg  flung  across  the  pommel, 
untwisting  Agnes'  leash  from  his  fist.  Then  he  asked  for 
Mistress  Marjorie,  and  dropped  to  the  ground,  leaving  his 
mare  and  falcon  in  the  man's  hands,  with  an  air. 


8       COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

He  flicked  his  fingers  to  growling  Jacob  as  he  went  past 
to  the  side  entrance  on  the  east,  stepped  in  through  the 
little  door  that  was  beside  the  great  one,  and  passed  on  as 
he  had  been  bidden  into  the  little  court,  turned  to  the  left, 
went  up  an  outside  staircase,  and  so  down  a  little  passage 
to  the  ladies'  parlour,  where  he  knocked  upon  the  door. 
The  voice  he  knew  called  to  him  from  within ;  and  he  went 
in,  smiling  to  himself.  Then  he  took  the  girl  who  awaited 
him  there  in  both  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  twice — first  her 
hands  and  then  her  lips,  for  respect  should  come  first  and 
ardour  second. 

"My  love,"  said  Robin,  and  threw  off  his  hat  with  the 
pheasant's  tail,  for  coolness'  sake. 

It  was  a  sweet  room  this  which  he  already  knew  by 
heart;  for  it  was  here  that  he  had  sat  with  Marjorie  and 
her  mother,  silent  and  confused,  evening  after  evening,  last 
autumn;  it  was  here,  too,  that  she  had  led  him  last  Christ- 
mas Eve,  scarcely  ten  days  ago,  after  he  had  kissed  her  in 
the  enclosed  garden.  But  the  low  frosty  sunlight  lay  in 
it  now,  upon  the  blue  painted  wainscot  that  rose  half 
up  the  walls,  the  tall  presses  where  the  linen  lay,  the  pieces 
of  stuff,  embroidered  with  pale  lutes  and  wreaths  that  Mis- 
tress Manners  had  bought  in  Derby,  hanging  now  over  the 
plaster  spaces.  There  was  a  chimney,  too,  newly  built, 
that  was  thought  a  great  luxury ;  and  in  it  burned  an  arm- 
ful of  logs,  for  the  girl  was  setting  out  new  linen  for  the 
household,  and  the  scents  of  lavender  and  burning  wood 
disputed  the  air  between  them. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  you,"  she  said,  "  when  I  heard 
the  dogs." 

She  piled  the  last  rolls  of  linen  in  an  ordered  heap,  and 
came  to  sit  beside  him.  Robin  took  one  hand  in  his  and  sa* 
silent. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  9 

She  was  of  an  age  with  him,  perhaps  a  month  the 
younger ;  and,  as  it  ought  to  be,  was  his  very  contrary  in  all 
respects.  Where  he  was  fair,  she  was  pale  and  dark;  his 
eyes  were  blue,  hers  black ;  he  was  lusty  and  showed  prom- 
ise of  broadness,  she  was  slender. 

"  And  what  news  do  you  bring  with  you  now  ?  "  she  said 
presently. 

He  evaded  this. 

"  Mistress  Manners  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mother  has  a  megrim,"  she  said ;  "  she  is  in  her 
chamber."  And  she  smiled  at  him  again.  For  these  two, 
as  is  the  custom  of  young  persons  who  love  one  another, 
had  said  not  a  word  on  either  side — neither  he  to  his  father 
nor  she  to  her  parents.  They  believed,  as  young  persons 
do,  that  parents  who  bring  children  into  the  world,  hold  it 
as  a  chief  danger  that  these  children  should  follow  their 
example,  and  themselves  be  married.  Besides,  there  is 
something  delicious  in  secrecy. 

"  Then  I  will  kiss  you  again,"  he  said,  "  while  there  is 
opportunity." 

Making  love  is  a  very  good  way  to  pass  the  time,  above 
all  when  that  same  time  presses  and  other  disconcerting 
things  should  be  spoken  of  instead;  and  this  device  Robin 
now  learned.  He  spoke  of  a  hundred  things  that  were  of 
no  importance:  of  the  dress  that  she  wore — russet,  as  it 
should  be,  for  country  girls,  with  the  loose  sleeves  folded 
back  above  her  elbows  that  she  might  handle  the  linen; 
her  apron  of  coarse  linen,  her  steel-buckled  shoes.  He  told 
her  that  he  loved  her  better  in  that  than  in  her  costume  of 
state — the  ruff,  the  fardingale,  the  brocaded  petticoat,  and 
all  the  rest — in  which  he  had  seen  her  once  last  summer  at 
Babington  House.  He  talked  then,  when  she  would  hear 
no  more  of  that,  of  Tuesday  seven-night,  when  they  would 


10  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

meet  for  hawking  in  the  lower  chase  of  the  Padley  estates; 
and  proceeded  then  to  speak  of  Agnes,  whom  he  had  left  on 
the  fist  of  the  man  who  had  taken  his  mare,  of  her  in- 
creasing infirmities  and  her  crimes  of  crabbing;  and  all  the 
while  he  held  her  left  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  fitted  lier 
fingers  between  his,  and  kissed  them  again  when  he  had  no 
more  to  say  on  any  one  point;  and  wondered  why  he  could 
not  speak  of  the  matter  on  which  he  had  come,  and  how 
he  should  tell  her.  And  then  at  last  she  drew  it  from  him. 
"  And  now,  my  Robin,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  what  you  have 
in  your  mind.  You  have  talked  of  this  and  that  and  Agnes 
and  Jock,  and  Padley  chase,  and  you  have  not  once  looked 
me  in  the  eyes  since  you  first  came  in." 

Now  it  was  not  shame  that  had  held  him  from  telling  her, 
but  rather  a  kind  of  bewilderment.  The  affair  might  hold 
shame,  indeed,  or  anger,  or  sorrow,  or  complacence,  but  he 
did  not  know ;  and  he  wished,  as  young  men  of  decent  birth 
should  wish,  to  present  the  proper  emotion  on  its  right 
occasion.  He  had  pondered  on  the  matter  continually 
since  his  father  had  spoken  to  him  on  Saint  Stephen's  night; 
and  at  one  time  it  seemed  that  his  father  was  acting  the  part 
of  a  traitor  and  at  another  of  a  philosopher.  If  it  were 
indeed  true,  after  all,  that  all  men  were  turning  Protestant, 
and  that  there  was  not  so  much  difference  between  the 
two  religions,  then  it  would  be  the  act  of  a  wise  man  to 
turn  Protestant  too,  if  only  for  a  while.  And  on  the  other 
hand  his  pride  of  birth  and  his  education  by  his  mother  and 
his  practice  ever  since  drew  him  hard  the  other  way.  He 
was  in  a  strait  between  the  two.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  think,  and  he  feared  what  Marjorie  might  think. 

It  was  this,  then,  that  had  held  him  silent.  He  feared 
what  Marjorie  might  think,  for  that  was  the  very  thing  that 
he  thought  that  he  thought  too,  and  he  foresaw  a  hundred 
inconveniences  and  troubles  if  it  were  so. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  11 

"  How  did  you  know  I  had  anything  in  my  mind  ?  "  he 
isked.  "  Is  it  not  enough  reason  for  my  coming  that  you 
should  be  here  ?  " 

She  laughed  softly,  with  a  pleasant  scornfulness. 

'>r(I '  read  you  like  a  printed  book/'  she  said.  "  What 
else  are  women's  wits  given  them  for  ?  " 

He  fell  to  stroking  her  hand  again  at  that,  but  she  drew 
it  away. 

"  Not  until  you  have  told  me/'  she  said. 

So  then  he  told  her. 

It  was  a  long  tale,  for  it  began  as  far  ago  as  last  August, 
when  his  father  had  come  back  from  giving  evidence  be- 
fore the  justices  at  Derby  on  a  matter  of  witchcraft,  and 
had  been  questioned  again  about  his  religion.  It  was  then 
that  Robin  had  seen  moodiness  succeed  to  anger,  and  long 
silence  to  moodiness.  He  told  the  tale  with  a  true  lover's 
art,  for  he  watched  her  face  and  trained  his  tone  and  his 
manner  as  he  saw  her  thoughts  come  and  go  in  her  eyes 
and  lips,  like  gusts  of  wind  across  standing  corn;  and  at 
last  he  told  her  outright  what  his  father  had  said  to  him 
on  St.  Stephen's  night,  and  how  he  himself  had  kept 
silence. 

Marjorie's  face  was  as  white  as  a  moth's  wing  when  he 
was  finishing,  and  her  eyes  like  sunset  pools ;  but  she  flamed 
up  bright  and  rosy  as  he  finished. 

"  You  kept  silence !  "  she  cried. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  anger  him,  my  dear ;  he  is  my  father," 
he  said  gently. 

The  colour  died  out  of  her  face  again  and  she  nodded 
once  or  twice,  and  a  great  pensiveness  came  down  on  her. 
He  took  her  hand  again  softly,  and  she  did  not  resist. 

"  The  only  doubt,"  she  said  presently,  as  if  she  talked 
to  herself,  "  is  whether  you  had  best  be  gone  at  Easter,  or 
stay  and  face  it  out." 


12  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  Yes,"  said  Robin,  with  his  dismay  come  fully  to  the 
birth. 

Then  she  turned  on  him,  full  of  a  sudden  tenderness  and 

compassion. 

"  Oh !  my  Robin,"  she  cried,  "  and  I  have  not  said  a 
word  about  you  and  your  own  misery.  I  was  thinking  but 
of  Christ's  honour.  You  must  forgive  me.  .  .  .  What  must 
it  be  for  you!  .  .  .  That  it  should  be  your  father!  You 
are  sure  that  he  means  it?  " 

"  My  father  does  not  speak  until  he  means  it.  He  is  al- 
ways like  that.  He  asks  counsel  from  no  one.  He 
thinks  and  he  thinks,  and  then  he  speaks;  and  it  is 
finished." 

She  fell  then  to  thinking  again,  her  sweet  lips  compressed 
together,  and  her  eyes  frightened  and  wondering,  searching 
round  the  hanging  above  the  chimney-breast.  (It  presented 
Icarus  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun;  and  it  was  said  in  Derby 
that  it  had  come  from  my  lord  Abbot's  lodging  at  Bol- 
ton.) 

Meantime  Robin  thought  too.  He  was  as  wax  in  the 
hands  of  this  girl,  and  knew  it,  and  loved  that  it  should  be 
so.  Yet  he  could  not  help  his  dismay  while  he  waited  for 
her  seal  to  come  down  on  him  and  stamp  him  to  her  model. 
For  he  foresaw  more  clearly  than  ever  now  the  hundred 
inconveniences  that  must  follow,  now  that  it  was  evident 
that  to  Marjorie's  mind  (and  therefore  to  God  Almighty's) 
there  must  be  no  tampering  with  the  old  religion.  He 
had  known  that  it  must  be  so;  yet  he  had  thought,  on  the 
way  here,  of  a  dozen  families  he  knew  who,  in  his  own 
memory,  had  changed  from  allegiance  to  the  Pope  of  Rome 
to  that  of  her  Grace,  without  seeming  one  penny  the  worse. 
There  were  the  Martins,  down  there  in  Derby;  the  Squire 
and  his  lady  of  Ashenden  Hall;  the  Conways  of  Matlock; 
and  the  rest — these  had  all  changed;  and  though  he  did  not 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  13 

respect  them  for  it,  yet  the  truth  was  that  they  were  not 
yet  stricken  by  thunderbolts  or  eaten  by  the  plague.  He 
had  wondered  whether  there  were  not  a  way  to  do  as  they 
had  done,  yet  without  the  disgrace  of  it.  ...  However, 
this  was  plainly  not  to  be  so  with  him.  He  must  put  up 
with  the  inconveniences  as  well  as  he  could,  and  he  just 
waited  to  hear  from  Marjorie  how  this  must  be  done. 

She  turned  to  him  again  at  last.  Twice  her  lips  opened 
to  speak,  and  twice  she  closed  them  again.  Robin  con- 
tinued to  stroke  her  hand  and  wait  for  judgment.  The 
third  time  she  spoke. 

"  I  think  you  must  go  away,"  she  said,  "  for  Easter. 
Tell  your  father  that  you  cannot  change  your  religion  simply 
because  he  tells  you  so.  I  do  not  see  what  else  is  to  be  done. 
He  will  think,  perhaps,  that  if  you  have  a  little  time  to 
think  you  will  come  over  to  him.  Well,  that  is  not  so, 
but  it  may  make  it  easier  for  him  to  believe  it  for  a 
while.  .  .  .  You  must  go  somewhere  where  there  is  a 
priest.  .  .  .  Where  can  you  go  ?  " 

Robin  considered. 

"  I  could  go  to  Dethick,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  not  far  enough  away,  I  think." 

"  I  could  come  here,"  he  suggested  artfully. 

A  smile  lit  in  her  eyes,  shone  in  her  mouth,  and  passed 
again  into  seriousness. 

"  That  is  scarcely  a  mile  further,"  she  said.  "  We  must 
think.  .  .  .  Will  he  be  very  angry,  Robin  ?  " 

Robin  smiled  grimly. 

"  I  have  never  withstood  him  in  a  great  affair,"  he  said. 
"  He  is  angry  enough  over  little  things." 

"  Poor  Robin !  " 

"Oh!  he  is  not  unjust  to  me.  He  is  a  good  father  to 
me." 

"  That  makes'  it  all  the  sadder,"  she  said. 


14  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE'. 

"  And  there  is  no  other  way?  "  he  asked  presently. 

She  glanced  at  him. 

"  Unless  you  would  withstand  him  to  the  face.  Would 
you  do  that,  Robin  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  tell  me/'  he  said  simply. 

"You  darling!  .  .  .  Well,  Robin,  listen  to  me.  It  is 
very  plain  that  sooner  or  later  you  will  have  to  withstand 
him.  You  cannot  go  away  every  time  there  is  communion 
at  Matstead,  or,  indeed,  every  Sunday.  Your  father  would 
have  to  pay  the  fines  for  you,  I  have  no  doubt,  unless  you 
went  away  altogether.  But  I  think  you  had  better  go  away 
for  this  time.  He  will  almost  expect  it,  I  think.  At  first 
he  will  think  that  you  will  yield  to  him ;  and  then,  little  by 
little  (unless  God's  grace  brings  himself  back  to  the  Faith), 
he  will  learn  to  understand  that  you  will  not.  But  it  will 
be  easier  for  him  that  way;  and  he  will  have  time  to  think 
what  to  do  with  you,  too.  .  .  .  Robin,  what  would  you  do 
if  you  went  away  ?  " 

Robin  considered  again. 

"  I  can  read  and  write,"  he  said.  "  I  am  a  Latinist.  I 
can  train  falcons  and  hounds  and  break  horses.  I  do  not 
know  if  there  is  anything  else  that  I  can  do." 

"  You  darling !  "  she  said  again. 

These  two,  as  will  have  been  seen,  were  as  simple  as 
children,  and  as  serious.  Children  are  not  gay  and  light- 
hearted,  except  now  and  then  (just  as  men  and  women  are 
not  serious  except  now  and  then).  They  are  grave  and 
considering:  all  that  they  lack  is  experience.  These  two,, 
then,  were  real  children;  they  were  grave  and  serious 
because  a  great  thing  had  disclosed  itself  to  them  in  which 
two  or  three  large  principles  were  present,  and  no  more. 
There  was  that  love  of  one  another,  whose  consummation 
seemed  imperilled,  for  how  could  these  two  ever  wed  if 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  15 

Robin  were  to  quarrel  with  his  father?  There  was  the 
Religion  which  was  in  their  bones  and  blood — the  Religion 
for  which  already  they  had  suffered  and  their  fathers  be- 
fore them.  There  was  the  honour  and  loyalty  which  this 
new  and  more  personal  suffering  demanded  now  louder 
than  ever;  and  in  Marjorie  at  least,  as  will  be  seen  more 
plainly  later,  there  was  a  strong  love  of  Jesus  Christ  and 
His  Mother,  whom  she  knew,  from  her  hidden  crucifix  and 
her  beads,  and  her  Jesus  Psalter — which  she  used  every 
day — as  well  as  in  her  own  soul — to  be  wandering  together 
once  more  among  the  hills  of  Derbyshire,  sheltering,  at 
peril  of  Their  lives,  in  stables  and  barns  and  little  secret 
chambers,  because  there  was  no  room  for  Them  in  Their 
own  places.  It  was  this  last  consideration,  as  Robin  had 
begun  to  guess,  that  stood  strongest  in  the  girl;  it  was  this, 
too,  as  again  he  had  begun  to  guess,  that  made  her  all 
that  she  was  to  him,  that  gave  her  that  strange  serious  air 
of  innocency  and  sweetness,  and  drew  from  him  a  love 
that  was  nine-tenths  reverence  and  adoration.  (He  always 
kissed  her  hands  first,  it  will  be  remembered,  before  her 
lips.) 

So  then  they  sat  and  considered  and  talked.  They  did 
not  speak  much  of  her  Grace,  nor  of  her  Grace's  religion, 
nor  of  her  counsellors  and  affairs  of  state:  these  things 
were  but  toys  and  vanities  compared  with  matters  of  love 
and  faith;  neither  did  they  speak  much  of  the  Commission- 
ers that  had  been  to  Derbyshire  once  and  would  come 
again,  or  of  the  alarms  and  the  dangers  and  the  priest 
hunters,  since  those  things  did  not  at  present  touch  them 
very  closely.  It  was  rather  of  Robin's  father,  and  whether 
and  when  the  maid  should  tell  her  parents,  and  how  this 
new  trouble  would  conflict  with  their  love.  They  spoke, 
that  is  to  say,  of  their  own  business  and  of  God's ;  and  of 
nothing  else.  The  frosty  sunshine  crept  down  the  painted 


16  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

wainscot  and  lay  at  last  at  their  feet,  reddening  to  rosi- 
ness.  .  .  . 

Ill 

Robin  rode  away  at  last  with  a  very  clear  idea  of  what 
he  was  to  do  in  the  immediate  present,  and  with  no  idea  at 
all  of  what  was  to  be  done  later.  Marjorie  had  given  him 
three  things — advice;  a  pair  of  beads  that  had  been  the 
property  of  Mr.  Cuthbert  Maine,  seminary  priest,  recently 
executed  in  Cornwall  for  his  religion;  and  a  kiss — the  first 
deliberate,  free-will  kiss  she  had  ever  given  him.  The  first 
he  was  to  keep,  the  second  he  was  to  return,  the  third  he 
was  to  remember;  and  these  three  things,  or,  rather,  his 
consideration  of  them,  worked  upon  him  as  he  went.  Her 
advice,  besides  that  which  has  been  described,  was,  princi- 
pally, to  say  his  Jesus  Psalter  more  punctually,  to  hear 
mass  whenever  that  were  possible,  to  trust  in  God,  and  to  be 
patient  and  submissive  with  his  father  in  all  things  that  did 
not  touch  divine  love  and  faith.  The  pair  of  beads  that  were 
once  Mr.  Maine's,  he  was  to  keep  upon  him  always,  day 
and  night,  and  to  use  them  for  his  devotions.  The  kiss — 
well,  he  was  to  remember  this,  and  to  return  it  to  her  upon 
their  next  meeting. 

A  great  star  came  out  as  he  drew  near  home.  His  path 
took  him  not  through  the  village,  but  behind  it,  near 
enough  for  him  to  hear  the  barkings  of  the  dogs  and  to 
smell  upon  the  frosty  air  the  scent  of  the  wood  fires.  The 
house  was  a  great  one  for  these  parts.  There  was  a  small 
gate-house  before  it,  built  by  his  father  for  dignity,  with  a 
lodge  on  either  side  and  an  arch  in  the  middle,  and  beyond 
this  lay  the  short  road,  straight  and  broad,  that  went  up 
to  the  court  of  the  house.  This  court  was,  on  three  sides 
of  it,  buildings;  the  hall  and  the  buttery  and  the  living- 
rooms  in  the  midst,  with  the  stables  and  falconry  on  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  17 

left,  and  the  servants'  lodgings  on  the  right;  the  fourth 
side,  that  which  lay  opposite  to  the  little  gate-house,  was 
a  wall,  with  a  great  double  gate  in  it,  hung  on  stone  posts 
that  had,  each  of  them,  a  great  stone  dog  that  held  a  blank 
shield.  All  this  later  part,  the  wall  with  the  gate,  the 
stables  and  the  servants'  lodgings,  as  well  as  the  gate- 
house without,  had  been  built  by  the  lad's  father  twenty 
years  ago,  to  bring  home  his  wife  to;  for,  until  that  time, 
the  house  had  been  but  a  little  place,  though  built  of  stone, 
and  solid  and  good  enough.  The  house  stood  half-way  up 
the  rise  of  the  hill,  above  the  village,  with  woods  about  it 
and  behind  it;  and  it  was  above  these  woods  behind  that 
the  great  star  came  out  like  a  diamond  in  enamel-work; 
and  Robin  looked  at  it,  and  fell  to  thinking  of  Marjorie 
again,  putting  all  other  thoughts  away.  Then,  as  he  rode 
through  into  the  court  on  to  the  cobbled  stones,  a  man  ran 
out  from  the  stable  to  take  his  mare  from  him. 

"  Master  Babington  is  here,"  he  said.  "  He  came  half 
an  hour  ago." 

"He  is  in  the  hall?" 

"Yes,  sir;  they  are  at  supper." 

The  hall  at  Matstead  was  such  as  that  of  most  esquires  of 
means.  Its  dai's  was  to  the  south  end,  and  the  buttery 
entrance  and  the  screens'  to  the  north,  through  which  came 
the  servers  with  the  meat.  In  the  midst  of  the  floor  stood 
the  reredos  with  the  fire  against  it,  and  a  round  vent  over- 
head in  the  roof  through  which  went  the  smoke  and  came 
the  rain.  The  tables  stood  down  the  hall,  one  on  either 
side,  with  the  master's  table  at  the  dai's  end  set  cross-ways. 
It  was  not  a  great  hall,  though  that  was  its  name;  it  ran 
perhaps  forty  feet  by  twenty.  It  was  lighted,  not  only  by 
the  fire  that  burned  there  through  the  winter  day  and 
night,  but  by  eight  torches  in  cressets  that  hung  against  the 


18  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

walls  and  sadly  smoked  them;  and  the  master's  table  was 
lighted  by  six  candles,  of  latten  on  common  days  and  of  sil- 
ver upon  festivals. 

There  were  but  two  at  the  master's  table  this  evening, 
Mr.  Audrey  himself,  a  smallish,  high-shouldered  man, 
ruddy-faced,  with  bright  blue  eyes  like  his  son's,  and  no 
hair  upon  his  face  (for  this  was  the  way  of  old  men  then, 
in  the  country,  at  least) ;  and  Mr.  Anthony  Babington,  a 
young  man  scarcely  a  year  older  than  Robin  himself,  of 
a  brown  complexion  and  a  high  look  in  his  face,  but  a 
little  pale,  too,  with  study,  for  he  was  learned  beyond  his 
years  and  read  all  the  books  that  he  could  lay  hand  to. 
It  was  said  even  that  his  own  verses,  and  a  prose-lament 
he  had  written  upon  the  Death  of  a  Hound,  were  read  with 
pleasure  in  London  by  the  lords  and  gentlemen.  It  was  as 
long  ago  as  '71,  that  his  verses  had  first  become  known, 
when  he  was  still  serving  in  the  school  of  good  manners  as 
page  in  my  Lord  Shrewsbury's  household.  They  were  con- 
sidered remarkable  for  so  young  a  boy.  So  it  was  to  this 
company  that  Robin  came,  walking  up  between  the  tables 
after  he  had  washed  his  hands  at  the  lavatory  that  stood 
by  the  screens. 

"  You  are  late,  lad,"  said  his  father. 

"  I  was  over  to  Padley,  sir.  .  .  .  Good-day,  Anthony." 

Then  silence  fell  again,  for  it  was  the  custom  in  good 
houses  to  keep  silence,  or  very  nearly,  at  dinner  and  supper. 
At  times  music  would  play,  if  there  was  music  to  be  had; 
or  a  scholar  would  read  from  a  book  for  awhile  at  the  be- 
ginning, from  the  holy  gospels  in  devout  households,  or 
from  some  other  grave  book.  But  if  there  were  neither 
music  nor  reading,  all  would  hold  their  tongues. 

Robin  was  hungry  from  his  riding  and  the  keen  air;  and 
he  ate  well.  First  he  stayed  his  appetite  a  little  with  a 
hunch  of  cheat- bread,  and  a  glass  of  pomage,  while  the  serv- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  19 

ant  was  bringing  him  his  entry  of  eggs  cooked  with  pars- 
ley. Then  he  ate  this;  and  next  came  half  a  wild-duck 
cooked  with  sage  and  sweet  potatoes;  and  last  of  all  a 
florentine  which  he  ate  with  a  cup  of  Canarian.  He  ate 
heartily  and  quickly,  while  the  two  waited  for  him  and 
nibbled  at  marchpane.  Then,  when  the  doors  were  flung 
open  and  the  troop  of  servants  came  in  to  their  supper,  Mr. 
Audrey  blessed  himself,  and  for  them,  too;  and  they  went 
out  by  a  door  behind  into  the  wainscoted  parlour,  where  the 
new  stove  from  London  stood,  and  where  the  conserves 
and  muscadel  awaited  them.  For  this,  or  like  it,  had  been 
the  procedure  in  Matstead  hall  ever  since  Robin  could  re- 
member, when  first  he  had  come  from  the  women  to  eat  his 
food  with  the  men. 

"And  how  were  all  at  Booth's  Edge?"  asked  Mr.  Au- 
drey, when  all  had  pulled  off  their  boots  in  country  fashion, 
and  were  sitting  each  with  his  glass  beside  him.  (Through 
the  door  behind  came  the  clamour  of  the  farm-men  and  the 
keepers  of  the  chase  and  the  servants,  over  their  food.) 

"  I  saw  Marjorie  only,  sir,"  said  the  boy.  "  Mr. 
Manners  was  in  Derby,  and  Mrs.  Manners  had  a 
megrim." 

"  Mrs.  Manners  is  ageing  swifter  than  her  husband," 
observed  Anthony. 

There  seemed  a  constraint  upon  the  company  this  even- 
ing. Robin  spoke  of  his  ride,  of  things  which  he  had  seen 
upon  it,  of  a  wood  that  should  be  thinned  next  year;  and 
Anthony  made  a  quip  or  two  such  as  he  was  accustomed 
to  make ;  but  the  master  sat  silent  for  the  most  part,  speak- 
ing to  the  lads  once  or  twice  for  civility's  sake,  but  no  more. 
And  presently  silences  began  to  fall,  that  were  very  un- 
usual things  in  Mr.  Anthony's  company,  for  he  had  a  quick 
and  a  gay  wit,  and  talked  enough  for  five.  Robin  knew 
very  well  what  was  the  matter;  it  was  what  lay  upon  his 


20  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

own  heart  as  heavy  as  lead ;  but  he  was  sorry  that  the  signs 
of  it  should  be  so  evident,  and  wondered  what  he  should 
say  to  his  friend  Anthony  when  the  time  came  for  telling; 
since  Anthony  was  as  ardent  for  the  old  Faith  as  any  in 
the  land.  It  was  a  bitter  time,  this,  for  the  old  families 
that  served  God  as  their  fathers  had,  and  desired  to  serve 
their  prince  too;  for,  now  and  again,  the  rumour  would  go 
abroad  that  another  house  had  fallen,  and  another  name 
gone  from  the  old  roll.  And  what  would  Anthony  Babing- 
ton  say,  thought  the  lad,  when  he  heard  that  Mr.  Audrey, 
who  had  been  so  hot  and  persevered  so  long,  must  be 
added  to  these  ? 

And  then,  on  a  sudden,  Anthony  himself  opened  on  a 
matter  that  was  at  least  cognate. 

"  I  was  hearing  to-day  from  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert 
that  his  uncle  would  be  let  out  again  of  the  Fleet  soon  to 
collect  his  fines." 

He  spoke  bitterly;  and,  indeed,  there  was  reason;  for 
not  only  were  the  recusants  (as  the  Catholics  were  named) 
put  in  prison  for  their  faith,  but  fined  for  it  as  well,  and 
let  out  of  prison  to  raise  money  for  this,  by  selling  their 
farms  or  estates. 

"He  will  go  to  Norbury?"  asked  Robin. 

"  He  will  come  to  Padley,  too,  it  is  thought.  Her  Grace 
must  have  her  money  for  her  ships  and  her  men,  and  for 
her  pursuivants  to  catch  us  all  with ;  and  it  is  we  that  must 
pay.  Shall  you  sell  again  this  year,  sir?  " 

Mr.  Audrey  shook  his  head,  pursing  up  his  lips  and 
staring  upon  the  fire. 

"  I  can  sell  no  more,"  he  said. 

Then  an  agony  seized  upon  Robin  lest  his  father  should 
say  all  that  was  in  his  mind.  He  knew  it  must  be  said; 
yet  he  feared  its  saying,  and  with  a  quick  wit  he  spoke  of 
that  which  he  knew  would  divert  his  friend. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  21 

"  And  the  Queen  of  the  Scots,"  he  said.  "  Have  vou 
heard  more  of  her  ?  " 

Now  Anthony  Babington  was  one  of  those  spirits  that 
live  largely  within  themselves,  and  therefore  see  that  which 
is  without  through  a  haze  or  mist  of  their  own  moods.  He 
read  much  in  the  poets;  you  would  say  that  Vergil  and 
Ovid,  as  well  as  the  poets  of  his  own  day,  were  his  friends ; 
he  lived  within,  surrounded  by  his  own  images,  and  there- 
fore he  loved  and  hated  with  ten  times  the  ardour  of  a  com- 
mon man.  He  was  furious  for  the  Old  Faith,  furious 
against  the  new;  he  dreamed  of  wars  and  gallantry  and 
splendour;  you  could  see  it  even  in  his  dress,  in  his  furred 
doublet,  the  embroideries  at  his  throat,  his  silver-hilted 
rapier,  as  well  as  in  his  port  and  countenance:  and  the 
burning  heart  of  all  his  images,  the  mirror  on  earth  of 
Mary  in  heaven,  the  emblem  of  his  piety,  the  mistress  of  his 
dreams — she  who  embodied  for  him  what  the  courtiers  in 
London  protested  that  Elizabeth  embodied  for  them — the 
pearl  of  great  price,  the  one  among  ten  thousand — this, 
for  him,  was  Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scotland,  now  prisoner 
in  her  cousin's  hands,  going  to  and  fro  from  house  to 
house,  with  a  guard  about  her,  yet  with  all  the  seeming  of 
liberty  and  none  of  its  reality.  .  .  . 

The  rough  bitterness  died  out  of  the  boy's  face,  and  a 
look  came  upon  it  as  of  one  who  sees  a  vision. 

"  Queen  Mary?  "  he  said,  as  if  he  pronounced  the  name 
of  the  Mother  of  God.  "  Yes ;  I  have  heard  of  her.  .  .  .  She 
is  in  Norfolk,  I  think." 

Then  he  let  flow  out  of  him  the  stream  that  always  ran 
in  his  heart  like  sorrowful  music  ever  since  the  day  when 
first,  as  a  page,  in  my  Lord  Shrewsbury's  house  in  Shef- 
field, he  had  set  eyes  on  that  queen  of  sorrows.  Then, 
again,  upon  the  occasion  of  his  journey  to  Paris,  he  had 
met  with  Mr.  Morgan,  her  servant,  and  the  Bishop  of  Glas- 


22  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

gow,  her  friend,  whose  talk  had  excited  and  inspired  him. 
He  had  learned  from  them  something  more  of  her  glories 
and  beauties,  and  remembering  what  he  had  seen  of  her, 
adored  her  the  more.  He  leaned  back  now,  shading  his 
eyes  from  the  candles  upon  the  table,  and  began  to  sing  his 
love  and  his  queen.  He  told  of  new  insults  that  had  been 
put  upon  her,  new  deprivations  of  what  was  left  to  her 
of  liberty;  he  did  not  speak  now  of  Elizabeth  by  name, 
since  a  fountain,  even  of  talk,  should  not  give  out  at  once 
sweet  water  and  bitter;  but  he  spoke  of  the  day  when 
Mary  should  come  herself  to  the  throne  of  England,  and 
take  that  which  was  already  hers;  when  the  night  should 
roll  away,  and  the  morning-star  arise ;  and  the  Faith  should 
come  again  like  the  flowing  tide,  and  all  things  be  again 
as  they  had  been  from  the  beginning.  It  was  rank  treason 
that  he  talked,  such  as  would  have  brought  him  to  Tyburn 
if  it  had  been  spoken  in  London  in  indiscreet  company; 
it  was  that  treason  which  her  Grace  herself  had  made  pos- 
sible by  her  faithlessness  to  God  and  man;  such  treason 
as  God  Himself  must  have  mercy  upon,  since  He  reads  all 
hearts  and  their  intentions.  The  others  kept  silence. 

At  the  end  he  stood  up.     Then  he  stooped  for  his  boots. 

"  I  must  be  riding,  sir,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Audrey  raised  his  hand  to  the  latten  bell  that  stood 
beside  him  on  the  table. 

"  I  will  take  Anthony  to  his  horse,"  said  Robin  suddenly, 
for  a  thought  had  come  to  him. 

"  Then  good-night,  sir,"  said  Anthony,  as  he  drew  on 
his  second  boot  and  stood  up. 

The  sky  was  all  ablaze  with  stars  now  as  they  came  out 
into  the  court.  On  their  right  shone  the  high  windows  of 
the  little  hall  where  peace  now  reigned,  except  for  the  clat- 
ter of  the  boys  who  took  away  the  dishes;  and  the  uight 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  23 

was  very  still  about  them  in  the  grip  of  the  frost,  for  the 
village  went  early  to  bed,  and  even  the  dogs  were  asleep. 

Robin  said  nothing  as  they  went  over  the  paving,  for  his 
determination  was  not  yet  ripe,  and  Anthony  was  still 
aglow  with  his  own  talk.  Then,  as  the  servant  who  waited 
for  his  master,  with  the  horses,  showed  himself  in  the 
stable-arch  with  a  lantern,  Robin's  mind  was  made  up. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said  softly.  "  Tell 
your  man  to  wait." 

"Eh?" 

"  Tell  your  man  to  wait  with  the  horses." 

His  heart  beat  hot  and  thick  in  his  throat  as  he  led  the 
way  through  the  screens  and  out  beyond  the  hall  and  down 
the  steps  again  into  the  pleasaunce.  Anthony  took  him  by 
the  sleeve  once  or  twice,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  went  on 
across  the  grass,  and  out  through  the  open  iron  gate  that 
gave  upon  the  woods.  He  dared  not  say  what  he  had  to 
say  within  the  precincts  of  the  house,  for  fear  he  should  be 
overheard  and  the  shame  known  before  its  time.  Then, 
when  they  had  gone  a  little  way  into  the  wood,  into  the 
dark  out  of  the  starlight,  Robin  turned;  and,  as  he  turned, 
saw  the  windows  of  the  hall  go  black  as  the  boys  ex- 
tinguished the  torches. 

"Well?"  whispered  Anthony  sharply  (for  a  fool  could 
see  that  the  news  was  to  be  weighty,  and  Anthony  was  no 
fool). 

It  was  wonderful  how  Robin's  thoughts  had  fixed  them- 
selves since  his  talk  with  Mistress  Marjorie.  He  had  gone 
to  Padley,  doubting  of  what  he  should  say,  doubting  what 
she  would  tell  him,  asking  himself  even  whether  compliance 
might  not  be  the  just  as  well  as  the  prudent  way.  Yet  now 
black  shame  had  come  on  him — the  black  shame  that  any 
who  was  a  Catholic  should  turn  from  his  faith;  blacker, 
that  he  should  so  turn  without  even  a  touch  of  the  rack 


24  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

or  the  threat  of  it;  blackest  of  all,  that  it  should  be  his  own 
father  who  should  do  this.  It  was  partly  food  and  wine 
that  had  strengthened  him,  partly  Anthony's  talk  just  now; 
but  the  frame  and  substance  of  it  all  was  Marjorie  and  her 
manner  of  speaking,  and  her  faith  in  him  and  in  God. 

He  stood  still,  silent,  breathing  so  heavily  that  Anthony 
heard  him. 

"  Tell  me,  Rob ;  tell  me  quickly." 

Robin  drew  a  long  breath. 

"You  saw  that  my  father  was  silent?"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Stay.  .  .  .  Will  you  swear  to  me  by  the  mass  that  you 
will  tell  no  one  what  you  will  hear  from  me  till  you  hear 
it  from  others  ?  " 

"  I  will  swear  it,"  whispered  Anthony  in  the  darkness. 

Again  Robin  sighed  in  a  long,  shuddering  breath.  An' 
thony  could  hear  him  tremble  with  cold  and  pain. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  my  father  will  leave  the  Church  next 
Easter.  He  is  tired  of  paying  fines,  he  says.  And  he  has 
bidden  me  to  come  with  him  to  Matstead  Church." 

There  was  dead  silence. 

"  I  went  to  tell  Marjorie  to-day,"  whispered  Robin. 
"  She  has  promised  to  be  my  wife  some  day ;  so  I  told  her, 
but  no  one  else.  She  has  bidden  me  to  leave  Matstead  for 
Easter,  and  pray  to  God  to  show  me  what  to  do  afterwards. 
Can  you  help  me,  Anthony?  " 

He  was  seized  suddenly  by  the  arms. 

"  Robin  ...  No  ...  no !     It  is  not  possible ! " 

"  It  is  certain.  I  have  never  known  my  father  to  turn 
from  his  word." 

From  far  away  in  the  wild  woods  came  a  cry  as  the  two 
stood  there.  It  might  be  a  wolf  or  fox,  if  any  were  there, 
or  some  strange  night-bird,  or  a  woman  in  pain.  It  rose, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  25 

it  seemed,  to  a  scream,  melancholy  and  dreadful,  and  then 
died  again.  The  two  heard  it,  but  said  nothing,  one  to  the 
other.  No  doubt  it  was  some  beast  in  a  snare  or  a-hunting, 
but  it  chimed  in  with  the  desolation  of  their  hearts  so  as  to 
seem  but  a  part  of  it.  So  the  two  stood  in  silence.  The 
house  was  quiet  now,  and  most  of  those  within  it  upon 
their  beds.  Only,  as  the  two  knew,  there  still  sat  in  silence 
within  the  little  wainscoted  parlour,  with  his  head  on  his 
hand  and  a  glass  of  muscadel  beside  him — he  of  whom  they 
thought — the  father  of  one  and  the  friend  and  host  of  the 
other.  ...  It  was  not  until  this  instant  in  the  dark  and 
in  the  quiet,  with  the  other  lad's  hands  still  gripped  on  to 
his  arms,  that  this  boy  understood  the  utter  shame  and 
the  black  misery  of  that  which  he  had  said,  and  the  othe* 
heard. 


CHAPTER  II 


THERE  were  excuses  in  plenty  for  Robin  to  ride  abroad, 
to  the  north  towards  Hathersage  or  to  the  south  towards 
Dethick,  as  the  whim  took  him;  for  he  was  learning  to 
manage  the  estate  that  should  be  his  one  day.  At  one 
time  it  was  to  quiet  a  yeoman  whose  domain  had  been 
ridden  over  and  his  sown  fields  destroyed ;  at  another,  to  dis- 
pute with  a  miller  who  claimed  for  injury  through  floods 
for  which  he  held  his  lord  responsible;  at  a  third,  to  see 
to  the  woodland  or  the  fences  broken  by  the  deer.  He  came 
and  went  then  as  he  willed;  and  on  the  second  day,  after 
Anthony's  visit,  set  out  before  dinner  to  meet  him,  that 
they  might  speak  at  length  of  what  lay  now  upon  both  their 
hearts. 

To  his  father  he  had  said  no  more,  nor  he  to  him.  His 
father  sat  quiet  in  the  parlour,  or  was  in  his  own  chamber 
when  Robin  was  at  home;  but  the  lad  understood  very  well 
that  there  was  no  thought  of  yielding.  And  there  were  a 
dozen  things  on  which  he  himself  must  come  to  a  decision. 
There  was  the  first,  the  question  as  to  where  he  was  to  go 
for  Easter,  and  how  he  was  to  tell  his  father ;  what  to  do  if 
his  father  forbade  him  outright;  whether  or  no  the  priests 
of  the  district  should  be  told;  what  to  do  with  the  chapel 
furniture  that  was  kept  in  a  secret  place  in  a  loft  at  Mat- 
stead.  Above  all,  there  hung  over  him  the  thought  of 
what  would  come  after,  if  his  father  held  to  his  decision  and 
would  allow  him  neither  to  keep  his  religion  at  home  nor  go 
elsewhere. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  27 

On  the  second  day,  therefore,  he  rode  out  (the  frost  still 
holding,  though  the  sun  was  clear  and  warm),  and  turned 
southwards  through  the  village  for  the  Dethick  road,  to- 
wards the  place  in  which  he  had  appointed  to  meet  An- 
thony. At  the  entrance  to  the  village  he  passed  the  min- 
ister, Mr.  Barton,  coming  out  of  his  house,  that  had  been 
the  priest's  lodging,  a  middle-aged  man,  made  a  minister 
under  the  new  Prayer-Book,  and  therefore,  no  priest  as 
were  some  of  the  ministers  about,  who  had  been  made 
priests  under  Mary.  He  was  a  solid  man,  of  no  great 
wit  or  learning,  but  there  was1  not  an  ounce  of  harm  in  him. 
(They  were  fortunate,  indeed,  to  have  such  a  minister; 
since  many  parishes  had  but  laymen  to  read  the  services; 
and  in  one,  not  twenty  miles  away,  the  squire's  falconer 
held  the  living.)  Mr.  Barton  was  in  his  sad-coloured  cloak 
and  round  cap,  and  saluted  Robin  heartily  in  his  loud, 
bellowing  voice. 

"  Riding  abroad  again,"  he  cried,  "  on  some  secret 
errand !  " 

"  I  will  give  your  respects' to  Mr.  Babington,"  said  Robin, 
smiling  heavily.  "  I  am  to  meet  him  about  a  matter  of 
a  tithe  too !  " 

"Ah!  you  Papists  would  starve  us  altogether  if  you 
could,"  roared  the  minister,  who  wished  no  better  than  to 
be  at  peace  with  his  neighbours,  and  was  all  for  liberty. 

"  You  will  get  your  tithe  safe  enough — one  of  you,  at 
least,"  said  Robin.  "  It  is  but  a  matter  as  to  who  shall 
pay  it." 

He  waved  good-day  to  the  minister  and  set  his  horse  to 
the  Dethick  track. 

There  was  no  going  fast  to-day  along  this  country  road. 
The  frosts  and  the  thaws  had  made  of  it  a  very  way  of 
sorrows.  Here  in  the  harder  parts  was  a  tumble  of  ridges 


28  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

and  holes,  with  edges  as  hard  as  steel;  here  in  the  softer, 
the  faggots  laid  to  build  it  up  were  broken  or  rotted 
through,  making  it  no  better  than  a  trap  for  horses'  feet; 
and  it  was  a  full  hour  before  Robin  finished  his  four  miles 
and  turned  up  through  the  winter  woodland  to  the  yeoman's 
farm  where  he  was  to  meet  Anthony.  It  was  true,  as  he 
had  said  to  Mr.  Barton,  that  they  were  to  speak  of  a  mat- 
ter of  tithe — this  was  to  be  their  excuse  if  his  father  ques- 
tioned him — for  there  was  a  doubt  as  to  in  which  parish 
stood  this  farm,  for  the  yeoman  tilled  three  meadows  that 
were  in  the  Babington  estate  and  two  in  Matstead. 

As  he  came  up  the  broken  ground  on  to  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  he  saw  Anthony  come  out  of  the  yard-gate  and  the 
yeoman  with  him.  Then  Anthony  mounted  his  horse  and 
rode  down  towards  him,  bidding  the  man  stay,  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  It  is  all  plain  enough,"  shouted  Anthony  loud  enough 
for  the  man  to  hear.  "It  is  Dethick  that  must  pay.  You 
need  not  come  up,  Robin;  we  must  do  the  paying." 

Robin  checked  his  mare  and  waited  till  the  other  came 
near  enough  to  speak. 

"  Young  Thomas  FitzHerbert  is  within.  He  is  riding 
round  his  new  estates,"  said  the  other  beneath  his  breath. 
"  I  thought  I  would  come  out  and  tell  you ;  and  I  do  not 
know  where  we  can  talk  or  dine.  I  met  him  on  the  road, 
and  he  would  come  with  me.  He  is  eating  his  dinner 
there." 

"  But  I  must  eat  my  dinner  too,"  said  Robin,  in  dismay. 

"  Will  you  tell  him  of  what  you  have  told  me  ?  He  is 
safe  and  discreet,  I  think." 

"  Why,  yes,  if  you  think  so,"  said  Robin.  "  I  do  not 
know  him  very  well." 

"  Oh !  he  is  safe  enough,  and  he  has  learned  not  to  talk 
Besides,  all  the  country  will  know  it  by  Easter." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  29 

So  they  turned  their  horses  back  again  and  rode  up  to 
the  farm. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  a  yeoman  when  three  gentlemen 
should  take  their  dinners  in  his  house;  and  the  place  was 
in  a  respectful  uproar.  From  the  kitchen  vent  went  up  a 
pillar  of  smoke,  and  through  its  door,  in  and  out  contin- 
ually, fled  maids  with  dishes.  The  yeoman  himself,  John 
Merton,  a  dried-looking,  lean  man,  stood  cap  in  hand  to 
meet  the  gentlemen;  and  his  wife,  crimson-faced  from  the 
fire,  peeped  and  smiled  from  the  open  door  of  the  living- 
room  that  gave  immediately  upon  the  yard.  For  these 
gentlemen  were  from  three  of  the  principal  estates  here 
about.  The  Babingtons  had  their  country  house  at  Dethick 
and  their  town  house  in  Derby ;  the  Audreys  owned  a  matter 
of  fifteen  hundred  acres  at  least  all  about  Matstead;  and 
the  Fitz  Herberts,  it  was  said,  scarcely  knew  themselves 
all  that  they  owned,  or  rather  all  that  had  been  theirs 
until  the  Queen's  Grace  had  begun  to  strip  them  of  it  little 
by  little  on  account  of  their  faith.  The  two  Padleys,  at 
least,  were  theirs,  besides  their  principal  house  at  Norbury ; 
and  now  that  Sir  Thomas  was  in  the  Fleet  Prison  for  his 
religion,  young  Mr.  Thomas,  his  heir,  was  of  more  account 
than  ever. 

He  was  at  his  dinner  when  the  two  came  in,  and  he  rose 
and  saluted  them.  He  was  a  smallish  kind  of  man,  with  a 
fittle  brown  beard,  and  his  short  hair,  when  he  lifted  his 
flapped  cap  to  them,  showed  upright  on  his  head;  he 
smiled  pleasantly  enough,  and  made  space  for  them  to  sit 
down,  one  at  each  side. 

"  We  shall  do  very  well  now,  Mrs.  Merton,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  will  bring  in  that  goose  once  more  for  these  gentle- 
men." 

Then  he  made  excuses  for  beginning  his  dinner  before 


$0  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

them:  he  was  on  his  way  home  and  must  be  off  again 
presently. 

It  was  a  well-furnished  table  for  a  yeoman's  house. 
There  was  a  linen  napkin  for  each  guest,  one  corner  of 
which  he  tucked  into  his  throat,  while  the  other  corner  lay 
beneath  his  wooden  plate.  The  twelve  silver  spoons  were 
laid  out  on  the  smooth  elm-table,  and  a  silver  salt  stood 
before  Mr.  Thomas.  There  was,  of  course,  an  abundance 
to  eat  and  drink,  even  though  no  more  than  two  had  been 
expected;  and  John  Merton  himself  stood  hatless  on  the 
further  side  of  the  table  and  took  the  dishes  from  the 
bare-armed  maids  to  place  them  before  the  gentlemen. 
There  was  a  jack  of  metheglin  for  each  to  drink,  and  a 
huge  loaf  of  miscelin  (or  bread  made  of  mingled  corn) 
stood  in  the  midst  and  beyond  the  salt. 

They  talked  of  this  and  of  that  and  of  the  other,  freely 
and  easily — of  Mr.  Thomas'  marriage  with  Mistress  West- 
ley  that  was  to  take  place  presently;  of  the  new  entail- 
ment  of  the  estates  made  upon  him  by  his  uncle.  John 
Merton  inquired,  as  was  right,  after  Sir  Thomas,  and 
openly  shook  his  head  when  he  heard  of  his  sufferings 
(for  he  and  his  wife  were  as  good  Catholics  as  any  in  the 
country)  ;  and  when  the  room  was  empty  for  a  moment  of 
the  maids,  spoke  of  a  priest  who,  he  had  been  told,  would 
say  mass  in  Tansley  next  day  (for  it  was  in  this  way,  for 
the  most  part,  that  such  news  was  carried  from  mouth 
to  mouth).  Then,  when  the  maids  came  in  again,  the 
battle  of  the  tithe  was  fought  once  more,  and  Mr.  Thomas 
pronounced  sentence  for  the  second  time. 

They  blessed  themselves,  all  four  of  them,  openly  at  the 
end,  and  went  out  at  last  to  their  horses. 

"  Will  you  ride  with  us,  sir?  "  asked  Anthony;  "  we  can 
go  your  way.  Robin  here  has  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  if  you  will  give  me  your  company  for 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  31 

a  little.  I  must  be  at  Padley  before  dark,  if  I  can,  and 
must  visit  a  couple  of  houses  on  the  way." 

He  called  out  to  his  two  servants,  who  ran  out  from  the 
kitchen  wiping  their  mouths,  telling  them  to  follow  at  once, 
and  the  three  rode  off  down  the  hill. 

Then  Robin  told  him. 

He  was  silent  for  a  while  after  he  had  put  a  question  or 
two,  biting  his  lower  lip  a  little,  and  putting  his  little  beard 
into  his  mouth.  Then  he  burst  out. 

"  And  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  come  to  me  for  Easter," 
he  said.  "  God  only  knows  where  I  shall  be  at  Easter. 
I  shall  be  married,  too,  by  then.  My  father  is  in  London 
now  and  may  send  for  me.  My  uncle  is  in  the  Fleet.  I 
am  here  now  only  to  see  what  money  I  can  raise  for  the 
fines  and  for  the  solace  of  my  uncle.  I  cannot  ask  you, 
Mr.  Audrey,  though  God  knows  that  I  would  do  anything 
that  I  could.  Have  you  nowhere  to  go?  Will  your  father 
hold  to  what  he  says  ?  " 

Robin  told  him  yes;  and  he  added  that  there  were  four 
or  five  places  he  could  go  to.  He  was  not  asking  for  help 
or  harbourage,  but  advice  only. 

"  And  even  of  that  I  have  none,"  cried  Mr.  Thomas.  "  I 
need  all  that  I  can  get  myself.  I  am  distracted,  Mr.  Bab- 
ington,  with  all  these  troubles." 

Robin  asked  him  whether  the  priests  who  came  and  went 
should  be  told  of  the  blow  that  impended;  for  at  those 
times  every  apostasy  was  of  importance  to  priests  who  had 
to  run  here  and  there  for  shelter. 

"  I  will  tell  one  or  two  of  the  more  discreet  ones  my- 
self," said  Mr.  Thomas,  "  if  you  will  give  me  leave.  I 
would  that  they  were  all  discreet,  but  they  are  not.  We 
will  name  no  names,  if  you  please;  but  some  of  them  are 
unreasonable  altogether  and  think  nothing  of  bringing  us 
all  into  peril." 


32  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

He  began  to  bite  his  beard  again. 

"  Do  you  think  the  Commissioners  will  visit  us  again?  * 
asked  Anthony.  "  Mr.  Fenton  was  telling  me " 

"  It  is  Mr.  Fenton  and  the  like  that  will  bring  them  down 
on  us  if  any  will/'  burst  out  Mr.  FitzHerbert  peevishly. 
"  I  am  as  good  a  Catholic,  I  hope,  as  any  in  the  world : 
but  we  can  surely  live  without  the  sacraments  for  a  month 
or  two  sometimes!  But  it  is  this  perpetual  coming  and 
going  of  priests  that  enrages  her  Grace  and  her  counsellors. 
I  do  not  believe  her  Grace  has  any  great  enmity  against  us ; 
but  she  soon  will,  if  men  like  Mr.  Fenton  and  Mr.  Bassett 
are  for  ever  harbouring  priests  and  encouraging  them.  It 
is  the  same  in  London,  I  hear;  it  is  the  same  in  Lancashire; 
it  is  the  same  everywhere.  And  all  the  world  knows  it, 
and  thinks  that  we  do  contemn  her  Grace  by  such  boldness. 
All  the  mischief  came  in  with  that  old  Bull,  Regnans  in 
Excelsis,  in  '69,  and " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  came  in  a  quiet  voice  from  be- 
yond him;  and  Robin,  looking  across,  saw  Anthony  with  a 
face  as  if  frozen. 

"  Pooh !  pooh !  "  burst  out  Mr.  Thomas,  with  an  uneasy 
air.  "  The  Holy  Father,  I  take  it,  may  make  mistakes, 
as  I  understand  it,  in  such  matters,  as  well  as  any  man. 
Why,  a  dozen  priests  have  said  to  me  they  thought  it  in- 
opportune; and " 

"  I  do  not  permit,"  said  Anthony  with  an  air  of  dignity 
beyond  his  years,  "that  any  man  should  speak  so  in  my 
company." 

"  Well,  well;  you  are  too  hot  altogether,  Mr.  Babington. 
I  admire  such  zeal  indeed,  as  I  do  in  the  saints ;  but  we  are 
not  bound  to  imitate  all  that  we  admire.  Say  no  more, 
sir;  and  I  will  say  no  more  either." 

They  rode  in  silence. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  33 

It  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  matters  that  were  in  dispute 
at  that  time  amongst  the  Catholics.  The  Pope  was  not 
swift  enough  for  some,  and  too  swift  for  others.  He  had 
thundered  too  soon,  said  one  party,  if,  indeed,  it  was  right 
to  thunder  at  all,  and  not  to  wait  in  patience  till  the 
Queen's  Grace  should  repent  herself ;  and  he  had  thundered 
not  soon  enough,  said  the  other.  Whence  it  may  at  least 
be  argued  that  he  had  been  exactly  opportune.  Yet  it 
could  not  be  denied  that  since  the  day  when  he  had  de- 
clared Elizabeth  cut  off  from  the  unity  of  the  Church  and 
her  subjects  absolved  from  their  allegiance — though  never, 
as  some  pretended  then  and  have  pretended  ever  since,  that 
a  private  person  might  kill  her  and  do  no  wrong — ever 
since  that  day  her  bitterness  had  increased  yearly  against 
her  Catholic  people,  who  desired  no  better  than  to  serve 
both  her  and  their  God,  if  she  would  but  permit  that  to  be 
possible. 

II 

It  would  be  an  hour  later  that  they  bid  good-bye  to  Mr. 
Thomas  FitzHerbert,  high  among  the  hills  to  the  east  of  the 
Derwent  river ;  and  when  they  had  seen  him  ride  off  towards 
Wingerworth,  rode  yet  a  few  furlongs  together  to  speak  of 
what  had  been  said. 

"He  can  do  nothing,  then,"  said  Robin;  "not  even  to 
give  good  counsel." 

"  I  have  never  heard  him  speak  so  before,"  cried  An- 
thony ;  "he  must  be  near  mad,  I  think.  It  must  be  his 
marriage,  I  suppose." 

"  He  is  full  of  his  own  troubles ;  that  is  plain  enough, 
without  seeking  others.  Well,  I  must  bear  mine  as  best  I 
can." 

They  were  just  parting — Anthony  to  ride  back  to  Deth- 
ick,  and  Robin  over  the  moors  to  Matstervrl.  when  over  a 


84  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

rise  in  the  ground  they  saw  the  heads  of  three  horsemen 
approaching.  It  was  a  wild  country  that  they  were  in; 
there  were  no  houses  in  sight;  and  in  such  circumstances  it 
was  but  prudent  to  remain  together  until  the  character  of 
the  travellers  should  be  plain;  so  the  two,  after  a  word, 
rode  gently  forward,  hearing  the  voices  of  the  three  talking 
to  one  another,  in  the  still  air,  though  without  catching  a 
word.  For,  as  they  came  nearer  the  voices  ceased,  as  if  the 
talkers  feared  to  be  overheard. 

They  were  well  mounted,  these  three,  on  horses  known 
as  Scottish  nags,  square-built,  sturdy  beasts,  that  could 
cover  forty  miles  in  the  day.  They  were  splashed,  too, 
not  the  horses  only,  but  the  riders,  also,  as  if  they  had 
ridden  far,  through  streams  or  boggy  ground.  The  men 
were  dressed  soberly  and  well,  like  poor  gentlemen  or 
prosperous  yeomen;  all  three  were  bearded,  and  all 
carried  arms  as  could  be  seen  from  the  flash  of  the  sun 
on  their  hilts.  It  was  plain,  too,  that  they  were  not  rogues 
or  cutters,  since  each  carried  his  valise  on  his  saddle,  as 
well  as  from  their  appearance.  Our  gentlemen,  then, 
after  passing  them  with  a  salute  and  a  good-day,  were  once 
more  about  to  say  good-bye  one  to  the  other,  and  appoint 
a  time  and  place  to  meet  again  for  the  hunting  of  which 
Robin  had  spoken  to  Marjorie,  and,  indeed,  had  drawn 
rein — when  one  of  the  three  strangers  was1  seen  to  turn  his 
horse  and  come  riding  back  after  them,  while  his  friends 
waited. 

The  two  lads  wheeled  about  to  meet  him,  as  was  but 
prudent ;  but  while  he  was  yet  twenty  yards  away  he  lifted 
his  hat.  He  seemed  about  thirty  years  old;  he  had  a 
pleasant,  ruddy  face. 

"  Mr.  Babington,  I  think,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  Anthony. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  85 

"  I  have  heard  mass  in  your  house,  sir,"  said  the  stranger. 
"*  My  name  is  Garlick." 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  remember — from  Tideswell.  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Garlick?  This  is  Mr.  Audrey,  of  Matstead." 

They  saluted  one  another  gravely. 

"  Mr.  Audrey  is  a  Catholic,  too,  I  think?  " 

Robin  answered  that  he  was. 

"  Then  I  have  news  for  you,  gentlemen.  A  priest,  Mr. 
Simpson,  is  with  us;  and  will  say  mass  at  Tansley  next 
Sunday.  You  would  like  to  speak  with  his  reverence  ?  " 

"  It  will  give  us  great  pleasure,  sir,"  said  Anthony, 
touching  his  horse  with  his  heel. 

"  I  am  bringing  Mr.  Simpson  on  his  way.  He  is  just 
fresh  from  Rheims.  And  Mr.  Ludlam  is  to  carry  him 
further  on  Monday,"  continued  Mr.  Garlick  as  they  went 
forward. 

"  Mr.  Ludlam  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  native  of  Radbourne,  and  has  but  just  finished 
at  Oxford.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  sir;  I  will  but  just  ride  for- 
ward and  tell  them." 

The  two  lads  drew  rein,  seeing  that  he  wished  first  to 
tell  the  others  who  they  were,  before  bringing  them  up; 
and  a  strange  little  thing  fell  as  Mr.  Garlick  joined  the 
two.  For  it  happened  that  by  now  the  sun  was  at  his 
setting;  going  down  in  a  glory  of  crimson  over  the  edge 
of  the  high  moor;  and  that  the  three  riders  were  directly  in 
his  path  from  where  the  two  lads  waited.  Robin,  therefore, 
looking  at  them,  saw  the  three  all  together  on  their  horses 
with  the  circle  of  the  sun  about  them,  and  a  great  flood  of 
blood-coloured  light  on  every  side;  the  priest  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  three,  and  the  two  men  leaning  towards  him 
seemed  to  be  speaking  and  as  if  encouraging  him  strongly. 
For  an  instant,  so  strange  was  the  light,  so  immense  the 
shadows  on  this  side  spread  over  the  tumbled  ground  up 


86       COME  BACK!  COME  ROPE! 

to  the  lads  themselves,  so  vast  the  great  vault  of  illumi- 
nated sky,  that  it  seemed  to  Robin  as  if  he  saw  a 
vision.  .  .  .  Then  the  strangeness  passed,  as  Mr.  Garlick 
turned  away  again  to  beckon  to  them ;  and  the  boy  thought 
no  more  of  it  at  that  time. 

They  uncovered  as  they  rode  towards  the  priest,  and 
bowed  low  to  him  as  he  lifted  his  hand  with  a  few  words 
of  Latin;  and  the  next  instant  they  were  in  talk. 

Mr.  Simpson,  like  his  friends,  was  a  youngish  man  at 
this  time,  with  a  kind  face  and  great,  innocent  eyes  that 
seemed  to  wonder  and  question.  Mr.  Ludlam,  too,  was1 
under  thirty  years  old,  plainly  not  of  gentleman's  birth, 
though  he  was  courteous  and  well-mannered.  It  seemed  a 
great  matter  to  these  three  to  have  fallen  in  with  young 
Mr.  Babington,  whose  family  was  so  well-known,  and  whose 
own  fame  as  a  scholar,  as  well  as  an  ardent  Catholic,  was 
all  over  the  county. 

Robin  said  little;  he  was  overshadowed  by  his  friend; 
but  he  listened  and  watched  as  the  four  spoke  together, 
and  learned  that  Mr.  Simpson  had  been  made  priest  scarce- 
ly a  month  before,  and  was  come  from  Yorkshire,  which 
was  his  own  county,  to  minister  in  the  district  of  the  Peak 
at  least  for  awhile.  He  heard,  too,  news  from  Douay,  and 
that  the  college,  it  was  thought,  might  move  from  there 
to  another  place  under  the  protection  of  the  family  of 
De  Guise,  since  her  Grace  was  very  hot  against  Douay, 
whence  so  many  of  her  troubles  proceeded,  and  was  doing 
her  best  to  persuade  the  Governor  of  the  Netherlands  to 
suppress  it.  However,  said  Mr.  Simpson,  it  was  not  yet 
done. 

Anthony,  too,  in  his  turn  gave  the  news  of  the  county; 
he  spoke  of  Mr.  Fenton,  of  the  Fitz  Herberts  and  others 
that  were  safe  and  discreet  persons;  but  he  said  nothing 
at  that  time  of  Mr.  Audrey  of  Matstead,  at  which  Robin 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  37 

was  glad,  since  his  shame  deepened  on  him  every  hour,  and 
all  the  more  now  that  he  had  met  with  those  three  men 
who  rode  so  gallantly  through  the  country  in  peril  of  lib- 
erty or  life  itself.  Nor  did  he  say  anything  of  the  Fitz- 
Herberts  except  that  they  might  be  relied  upon. 

"  We  must  be  riding,"  said  Garlick  at  last;  "  these 
moors  are  strange  to  me;  and  it  will  be  dark  in  half  an 
hour." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  be  your  guide,  sir?  "  asked  An- 
thony of  the  priest.  "  It  is  all  in  my  road,  and  you  will  not 
be  troubled  with  questions  or  answers  if  you  are  in  my 
company." 

"  But  what  of  your  friend,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Robin  knows  the  country  as  he  knows  the  flat  of 
his  hand.  We  were  about  to  separate  as  we  met  you." 

"  Then  we  will  thankfully  accept  your  guidance,  sir," 
said  the  priest  gravely. 

An  impulse  seized  upon  Robin  as  he  was  about  to  say 
good-day,  though  he  was  ashamed  of  it  five  minutes  later  as 
a  modest  lad  would  be.  Yet  he  followed  it  now;  he  leapt 
off  his  horse  and,  holding  Cecily's  rein  in  his  arm,  kneeled 
on  the  stones  with  both  knees. 

"  Your  blessing,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  priest.  And  Anthony 
eyed  him  with  astonishment. 

Ill 

Robin  was  moved,  as  he  rode  home  over  the  high  moors, 
and  down  at  last  upon  the  woods  of  Matstead,  in  a  manner 
that  was  new  to  him,  and  that  he  could  not  altogether  under- 
stand. He  had  met  travelling  priests  before;  indeed,  all 
the  priests  whose  masses  he  had  ever  heard,  or  from  whom 
he  had  received  the  sacraments,  were  travelling  priests 
who  went  in  peril;  and  yet  this  young  man,  upon  whose 


38       COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

consecrated  hands  the  oil  was  scarcely  yet  dry,  moved  and 
drew  his  heart  in  a  manner  that  he  had  never  yet  known. 
It  was  perhaps  something  in  the  priest's  face  that  had  so 
affected  him;  for  there  was  a  look  in  it  of  a  kind  of  sur- 
prised timidity  and  gentleness,  as  if  he  wondered  at  him- 
self for  being  so  foolhardy,  and  as  if  he  appealed  with 
that  same  wonder  and  surprise  to  all  who  looked  on  him. 
His  voice,  too,  was  gentle,  as  if  tamed  for  the  seminary 
and  the  altar;  and  his  whole  air  and  manner  wholly  unlike 
that  of  some  of  the  priests  whom  Robin  knew — loud-voiced, 
confident,  burly  men  whom  you  would  have  sworn  to  be 
country  gentlemen  or  yeomen  living  on  their  estates  or 
farms  and  fearing  to  look  no  man  in  the  face.  It  was 
this  latter  kind,  thought  Robin,  that  was  best  suited  to 
such  a  life — to  riding  all  day  through  north-country  storms, 
to  lodging  hardily  where  they  best  could,  to  living  such 
a  desperate  enterprise  as  a  priest's  life  then  was,  with 
prices  upon  their  heads  and  spies  everywhere.  It  was  not 
a  life  for  quiet  persons  like  Mr.  Simpson,  who,  surely, 
would  be  better  at  his  books  in  some  college  abroad,  offer- 
ing the  Holy  Sacrifice  in  peace  and  security,  and  praying 
for  adventurers  more  hardy  than  himself.  Yet  here  was 
Mr.  Simpson  just  set  out  upon  such  an  adventure,  of  his 
own  free-will  and  choice,  with  no  compulsion  save  that 
of  God's  grace. 

There  was  yet  more  than  an  hour  before  supper-time 
when  he  rode  into  the  court  at  last;  and  Dick  Sampson,  his 
own  groom,  came  to  take  his  horse  from  him. 

"  The  master's  not  been  from  home  to-day,  sir,"  said 
Dick  when  Robin  asked  of  his  father. 

"  Not  been  from  home  ?  " 

"  No,  sir — not  out  of  the  house,  except  that  he  was 
Walking  in  the  pleasaunce  half  an  hour  ago." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  39 

Robin  ran  up  the  steps  and  through  the  screens  to  see  if 
his  father  was  still  there;  but  the  little  walled  garden,  so 
far  as  he  could  see  it  in  the  light  from  the  hall  windows, 
was  empty ;  and,  indeed,  it  would  be  strange  for  any  man  to 
walk  in  such  a  place  at  such  an  hour.  He  wondered,  too, 
to  hear  that  his  father  had  not  been  from  home;  for  on 
all  days,  except  he  were  ill,  he  would  be  about  the  estate, 
here  and  there.  As  he  came  back  to  the  screens  he  heard  a 
step  going  up  and  down  in  the  hall,  and  on  looking  in  met 
his  father  face  to  face.  The  old  man  had  his  hat  on  his 
head,  but  no  cloak  on  his  shoulders,  though  even  with  the 
fire  the  place  was  cold.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  been 
walking  up  and  down  to  warm  himself.  Robin  could  not 
make  out  his  face  very  well,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  a 
torch. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  meet  Anthony  at  one  of  the  Dethick  farms, 
sir — John  Merton's." 

"  You  met  no  one  else?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert  was1  there  and 
dined  with  us.  He  rode  with  us,  too,  a  little  way."  And 
then  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  speaking  of  the  priest,  he 
stopped  himself;  and  in  an  instant  knew  that  never  again 
must  he  speak  of  a  priest  to  his  father;  his  father  had 
already  lost  his  right  to  that.  His  father  looked  at  him 
a  moment,  standing  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  of  a  priest  that  is  newly 
come  to  these  parts — or  coming  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  hear  mass  is  to  be  said  ...  in  the  district 
on  Sunday." 

"Where  is  mass  to  be  said?" 

Robin  drew  a  long  breath,  lifted  his  eyes  to  his  father'? 
and  then  dropped  them  again. 


40  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"Did  you  hear  me,  sir?     Where  is  mass  to  be  said?" 

Again  Robin  lifted  and  again  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  What  is  the  priest's  name  ?  " 

Again  there  was  dead  silence.  For  a  son,  in  those  days, 
so  to  behave  towards  his  father,  was  an  act  of  very  defiance. 
Yet  the  father  said  nothing.  There  the  two  remained; 
Robin  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  expecting  a  storm  of 
words  or  a  blow  in  the  face.  Yet  he  knew  he  could  do  no 
otherwise;  the  moment  had  come  at  last  and  he  must  act 
as  he  would  be  obliged  always  to  act  hereafter. 

Matters'  had  matured  swiftly  in  the  boy's  mind,  all  un- 
consciously to  himself.  Perhaps  it  was  the  timid  air  of 
the  priest  he  had  met  an  hour  ago  that  consummated  the 
process.  At  least  it  was  so  consummated. 

Then  his  father  turned  suddenly  on  his  heel;  and  the 
son  went  out  trembling. 


CHAPTER  III 


J*  I  WILL  speak  to  you  to-night,  sir,  after  supper,"  said 
his  father  sharply  a  second  day  later,  when  Robin,  meet- 
tng  his  father  setting  out  before  dinner,  had  asked  him  to 
give  him  an  hour's  talk. 

Robin's  mind  had  worked  fiercely  and  intently  since  the 
encounter  in  the  hall.  His  father  had  sat  silent  both  at 
supper  and  afterwards,  and  the  next  day  was  the  same; 
the  old  man  spoke  no  more  than  was  necessary,  shortly  and 
abruptly,  scarcely  looking  his  son  once  in  the  face,  and  the 
rest  of  the  day  they  had  not  met.  It  was  plain  to  the  boy 
that  something  must  follow  his  defiance,  and  he  had  pre- 
pared all  his  fortitude  to  meet  it.  Yet  the  second  night  had 
passed  and  no  word  had  been  spoken,  and  by  the  second 
morning  Robin  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  he  must  know  what 
was  in  his  father's1  mind.  And  now  the  appointment  was 
made,  and  he  would  soon  know  all.  His  father  was  absent 
from  dinner  and  the  boy  dined  alone.  He  learned  from 
Dick  Sampson  that  his  father  had  ridden  southwards. 

It  was  not  until  Robin  had  sat  down  nearly  half  an  hour 
later  than  supper-time  that  the  old  man  came  in.  The 
frost  was  gone;  deep  mud  had  succeeded,  and  the  rider 
was  splashed  above  his  thighs.  He  stayed  at  the  fire  for 
his  boots  to  be  drawn  off  and  to  put  on  his  soft-leather 
shoes,  while  Robin  stood  up  dutifully  to  await  him.  Then 
he  came  forward,  took  his  seat  without  a  word,  and  called 
for  supper.  In  ominous  silence  the  meal  proceeded,  and 

41 


42  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

with  the  same  thunderous  air,  when  it  was  over,  his  father 
said  grace  and  made  his  way,  followed  by  his  son,  into 
the  parlour  behind.  He  made  no  motion  at  first  to  pour 
out  his  wine;  then  he  helped  himself  twice  and  left  the 
jug  for  Robin. 

Then  suddenly  he  began  without  moving  his  head. 

"  I  wish  to  know  your  intentions,"  he  said,  with  irony  so 
serious  that  it  seemed  gravity.  "  I  cannot  flog  you  or  put 
you  to  school  again,  and  I  must  know  how  we  stand  to  one 
another." 

Robin  was  silent.  He  had  looked  at  his  father  once  or 
twice,  but  now  sat  downcast  and  humble  in  his  place.  With 
his  left  hand  he  fumbled,  out  of  sight,  Mr.  Maine's  pair 
of  beads.  His  father,  for  his  part,  sat  with  his  feet 
stretched  to  the  fire,  his  head  propped  on  his  hand,  not 
doing  enough  courtesy  to  his  son  even  to  look  at  him. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     But  I  do  not  know  what  to  say." 

"  I  wish  to  know  your  intentions.  Do  you  mean  t<v 
thwart  and  disobey  me  in  all  matters,  or  in  only  those  that 
have  to  do  with  religion  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  thwart  or  disobey  you,  sir,  in  any 
matters  except  where  my  conscience  is  touched."  (The 
substance  of  this  answer  had  been  previously  rehearsed,  and 
the  latter  part  of  it  even  verbally.) 

"  Be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  that." 

Robin  licked  his  lips  carefully  and  sat  up  a  little  in  his 
chair. 

"  You  told  me,  sir,  that  it  was  your  intention  to  leave 
the  Church.  Then  how  can  I  tell  you  of  what  priests  are 
here,  or  where  mass  is  to  be  said?  You  would  not  have 
done  so  to  one  who  was  not  a  Catholic,  six  months  ago." 

The  man  sneered  visibly. 

"  There  is  no  need,"  he  said.    "  It  Is  Mr.  Simpson  who 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  43 

is  to  say  mass  to-morrovv',  and  it  is  at  Tansley  that  it  will 
be  said,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  If  I  choose  to  tell 
the  justices,  you  cannot  prevent  it."  (He  turned  round  in 
a  flare  of  anger.)  "  Do  you  think  I  shall  tell  the  justices?  " 

Robin  said  nothing. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  tell  the  justices?  "  roared  the  old 
man  insistently. 

"  No,  sir.     Now  I  do  not." 

The  other  growled  gently  and  sank  back. 

"  But  if  you  think  that  I  will  permit  my  son  to  flout  me 
to  my  face  in  my  own  hall,  and  not  to  trust  his  own  father 
- — why,  you  are  immeasurably  mistaken,  sir.  So  I  ask  you 
again  how  far  you  intend  to  thwart  and  disobey  me." 

A  kind  of  despair  surged  up  in  the  boy's  heart — despair 
at  the  fruitlessness  of  this  ironical  and  furious  sort  of  talk; 
and  with  the  despair  came  boldness. 

"  Father,  will  you  let  me  speak  outright,  without  think- 
ing that  I  mean  to  insult  you?  I  do  not;  I  swear  I  do  not. 
Will  you  let  me  speak,  sir?  " 

His  father  growled  again  a  sort  of  acquiescence,  and 
IRobin  gathered  his  forces.  He  had  prepared  a  kind  of 
defence  that  seemed  to  him  reasonable,  and  he  knew  that  his 
father  was  at  least  just.  They  had  been  friends,  these  two, 
always,  in  an  underground  sort  of  way,  which  was  all  that 
the  relations  of  father  and  son  in  such  days  allowed.  The 
old  man  was  curt,  obstinate,  and  even  boisterous  in  his 
anger ;  but  there  was  a  kindliness  beneath  that  the  boy 
always  perceived — a  kindliness  which  permitted  the  son  an 
exceptional  freedom  of  speech,  which  he  used  always  in  the 
last  resort  and  which  he  knew  his  father  loved  to  hear  him 
use.  This,  then,  was  plainly  a  legitimate  occasion  for  it, 
and  he  had  prepared  himself  to  make  the  most  of  it.  He 
began  formally: 

"  Sir/'  he  said,  "  you  have  brought  me  up  in  the  Old 


44  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Faith,  sent  me  to  mass,  and  to  the  priest  to  learn  my  duty, 
and  I  have  obeyed  you  always.  You  have  taught  me  that 
a  man's  duty  to  God  must  come  before  all  else — as  our 
Saviour  Himself  said,  too.  And  now  you  turn  on  me,  and 
bid  me  forget  all  that,  and  come  to  church  with  you.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  for  me  to  say  anything  to  my  father  about  his 
own  conscience;  I  must  leave  that  alone.  But  I  am  bound 
to  speak  of  mine  when  occasion  rises,  and  this  is  one  of 
them.  ...  I  should  be  dishonouring  and  insulting  you, 
sir,  if  I  did  not  believe  you  when  you  said  you  would  turn 
Protestant;  and  a  man  who  says  he  will  turn  Protestant 
has  done  so  already.  It  was  for  this  reason,  then,  and  no 
other,  that  I  did  not  answer  you  the  other  day;  not  because 
I  wish  to  be  disobedient  to  you,  but  because  I  must  be 
obedient  to  God.  I  did  not  lie  to  you,  as  I  might  have  done, 
and  say  that  I  did  not  know  who  the  priest  was  nor  where 
mass  was  to  be  said.  But  I  would  not  answer,  because  it 
is  not  right  or  discreet  for  a  Catholic  to  speak  of  these 
things  to  those  who  are  not  Catholics " 

"  How  dare  you  say  I  am  not  a  Catholic,  sir !  " 

''  A  Catholic,  sir,  to  my  mind,"  said  Robin  steadily,  "  is 
one  who  holds  to  the  Catholic  Church  and  to  no  other.  I 
mean  nothing  offensive,  sir;  I  mean  what  I  said  I  meant, 
and  no  more.  It  is  not  for  me  to  condemn " 

"  I  should  think  not !  "  snorted  the  old  man. 

"  Well,  sir,  that  is  my  reason.    And  further " 

He  stopped,  doubtful. 

"Well,  sir— what  further?" 

"  Well,  I  cannot  come  to  the  church  with  you  at  Easter." 
His  father  wheeled  round  savagely  in  his  chair. 

"  Father,  hear  me  out,  and  then  say  what  you 
will.  ...  I  say  I  cannot  come  with  you  to  church  at 
Easter,  because  I  am  a  Catholic.  But  I  do  not  wish  to 
trouble  or  disobey  you  openly.  I  will  go  away  from  home 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  45 

for  that  time.  Good  Mr.  Barton  will  cause  no  trouble; 
he  wants  nothing  but  peace.  Father,  you  are  not  just  to 
me.  You  have  taught  me  too  much,  or  you  have  not  given 
me  time  enough " 

Again  he  broke  off,  knowing  that  he  had  said  what  he 
did  not  mean,  but  the  old  man  was  on  him  like  a 
hawk. 

"  Not  time  enough,  you  say  ?    Well,  then " 

"  No,  sir;  I  did  not  mean  that,"  wailed  Robin  suddenly. 
"  I  do  not  mean  that  I  should  change  if  I  had  a  hundred 
years;  I  am  sure  I  shall  not.  But " 

"  You  said,  '  Not  time  enough,'  "  said  the  other  medi- 
tatively. "  Perhaps  if  I  give  you  time " 

"  Father,  I  beg  of  you  to  forget  what  I  said ;  I 
did  not  mean  to  say  it.  It  is  not  true.  But  Marjorie 
said " 

"  Marjorie!     What  has  Marjorie  to  do  with  it?  " 

Robin  found  himself  suddenly  in  deep  waters.  He  had 
plunged  and  found  that  he  could  not  swim.  This  was  the 
second  mistake  he  had  made  in  saying  what  he  did  not 
mean.  .  .  .  Again  the  courage  of  despair  came  to  him,  and 
he  struck  out  further. 

"  I  must  tell  you  of  that  too,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Mistress 
Marjorie  and  I " 

He  stopped,  overwhelmed  with  shame.  His  father  turned 
full  round  and  stared  at  him. 

"  Go  on,  sir." 

Robin  seized  his  glass  and  emptied  it. 

"  Well,  sir.  Mistress  Marjorie  and  I  love  one  another. 
We  are  but  boy  and  girl,  sir ;  we  know  that " 

Then  his  father  laughed.  It  was  laughter  that  was  at 
once  hearty  and  bitter;  and,  with  it,  came  the  closing  of  the 
open  door  in  the  boy's  heart.  As  there  came  out,  after  it, 
sentence  after  sentence  of  scorn  and  contempt,  the  bolts, 


46  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

so  to  say,  were  shot  and  the  key  turned.  It  might  all  have 
been  otherwise  if  the  elder  man  had  been  kind,  or  if  he 
had  been  sad  or  disappointed,  or  even  if  he  had  been  merely 
angry;  but  the  soreness  and  misery  in  the  old  man's  heart 
— misery  at  his  own  acts  and  words,  and  at  the  outrage 
he  was  doing  to  his  own  conscience — turned  his  judgment 
bitter,  and  with  that  bitterness  his  son's  heart  shut  tight 
against  him. 

"  But  boy  and  girl !  "  sneered  the  man.  "  A  couple  of 
blind  puppies,  I  would  say  rather — you  with  your  falcons 
and  mare  and  your  other  toys,  and  the  down  on  your  chin, 
and  your  conscience;  and  she  with  her  white  face  and  her 
mother  and  her  linen-parlour  and  her  beads" — (his  charity 
prevailed  so  far  as  to  hinder  him  from  more  outspoken 
contempt) — "  And  you  two  babes  have  been  prattling  of 
conscience  and  prayers  together — I  make  no  doubt,  and 
thinking  yourselves  Cecilies  and  Laurences  and  all  the  holy 
martyrs — and  all  this  without  a  by-your-leave,  I  dare 
wager,  from  parent  or  father,  and  thinking  yourselves  man 
and  wife;  and  you  fondling  her,  and  she  too  modest  to  be 
fondled,  and " 

The  plain  truth  struck  him  with  sudden  splendour,  at 
least  sufficiently  strong  to  furnish  him  with  a  question. 

"  And  have  you  told  Mistress  Marjorie  about  your  sad 
rogue  of  a  father?  " 

Robin,  white  with  anger,  held  his  lips  grimly  together 
and  the  wrath  blazed  in  an  instant  up  from  the  scornful 
old  heart,  whose  very  love  was  turned  to  gall. 

"  Tell  me,  sir — I  will  have  it !  "  he  cried. 

Robin  looked  at  him  with  such  hard  fury  in  his  eyes 
that  for  a  moment  the  man  winced.  Then  he  recovered  him- 
self, and  again  his  anger  rose  to  the  brim. 

"  You  need  not  look  at  me  like  that,  you  hound.  Tell 
me,  I  say !  " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  47 

"  I  will  not!  "  shouted  Robin,  springing  to  his  feet. 

The  old  man  was  up  too  by  now,  with  all  the  anger  of 
his  son  hardened  by  his  dignity. 

"  You  will  not?  " 

"  No." 

For  a  moment  the  fate  of  them  both  still  hung  in  the 
balance.  If,  even  at  this  instant,  the  father  had  remem- 
bered his  love  rather  than  his  dignity,  had  thought  of  the 
past  and  its  happy  years,  rather  than  of  the  blinding, 
swollen  present;  or,  on  the  other  side,  if  the  son  had  but 
eubmitted  if  only  for  an  hour,  and  obeyed  in  order  that 
he  might  rule  later — the  whole  course  might  have  run 
aright,  and  no  hearts  have  been  broken  and  no  blood  shed. 
But  neither  would  yield.  There  was  the  fierce  northern 
obstinacy  in  them  both ;  the  gentle  birth  sharpened  its  edge ; 
the  defiant  refusal  of  the  son,  the  wounding  contempt  of  the 
father  not  for  his  son  only,  but  for  his  son's  love — these 
things  inflamed  the  hearts  of  both  to  madness.  The  father 
seized  his  ultimate  right,  and  struck  his  son  across  the  face. 

Then  the  son  answered  by  his  only  weapon. 

For  a  sensible  pause  he  stood  there,  his  fresh  face  paled 
to  chalkiness,  except  where  the  print  of  five  fingers  slowly 
reddened.  Then  he  made  a  courteous  little  gesture,  as  if 
to  invite  his  father  to  sit  down;  and  as  the  other  did  so, 
slowly  and  shaking  all  over,  struck  at  him  by  careful  and 
calculated  words,  delivered  with  a  stilted  and  pompous 
air: 

"  You  have  beaten  me,  sir;  so,  of  course,  I  obey.  Yes, 
I  told  Mistress  Marjorie  Manners  that  my  father  no  longer 
counted  himself  a  Catholic,  and  would  publicly  turn  Prot- 
estant at  Easter,  so  as  to  please  her  Grace  and  be  in 
favour  with  the  Court  and  with  the  county  justices.  And 
I  have  told  Mr.  Babington  so  as  well,  and  also  Mr.  Thomas 
Fitz  Herbert.  It  will  spare  you  the  pain,  sir,  of  making  an^ 


48  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

public  announcement  on  the  matter.     It  is  always  a  son's 
duty  to  spare  his  father  pain." 

Then  he  bowed,  wheeled,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 


II 

Two  hours  later  Robin  was  still  lying  completely  dressed 
on  his  bed  in  the  dark. 

It  was  a  plain  little  chamber  where  he  lay,  fireless,  yet 
not  too  cold,  since  it  was  wainscoted  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
and  looked  out  eastwards  upon  the  pleasaunce,  with  rooms 
on  either  side  of  it.  A  couple,  of  presses  sunk  in  the  walls 
held  his  clothes  and  boots ;  a  rush-bottomed  chair  stood  by 
the  bed ;  and  the  bed  itself,  laid  immediately  on  the  ground, 
was  such  as  was  used  in  most  good  houses  by  all  except  the 
master  and  mistress,  or  any  sick  members  of  the  family — a 
straw  mattress  and  a  wooden  pillow.  His  bows  and  arrows, 
with  a  pair  of  dags  or  pistols,  hung  on  a  rack  against  the 
wall  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  a  little  brass  cross  en- 
graved with  a  figure  of  the  Crucified  hung  over  it.  It  was 
such  a  chamber  as  any  son  of  a  house  might  have,  who  was 
a  gentleman  and  not  luxurious. 

A  hundred  thoughts  had  gone  through  his  mind  since  he 
had  flung  himself  down  here  shaking  with  passion;  and 
these  had  begun  already  to  repeat  themselves,  like  a  turn- 
ing wheel,  in  his  head.  Marjorie;  his  love  for  her;  his 
despair  of  that  love;  his  father;  all  that  they  had  been, 
one  to  the  other,  in  the  past;  the  little,  or  worse  than  little, 
that  they  would  be,  one  to  the  other,  in  the  future;  the 
priest's  face  as  he  had  seen  it  three  days  ago;  what  would 
be  done  at  Easter,  what  later — all  these  things,  coloured 
and  embittered  now  by  his  own  sorrow  for  his  words  to 
his  father,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  had  shamed  himself 
when  he  should  have  suffered  in  silence — these  things  turned 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  49 

continually  in  his  head,  and  he  was  too  young  and  too 
simple  to  extricate  one  from  the  other  all  at  once. 

Things  had  come  about  in  a  manner  which  yesterday  he 
would  not  have  thought  possible.  He  had  never  before 
spoken  so  to  one  to  whom  he  owed  reverence;  neither  had 
this  one  ever  treated  him  so.  His  father  had  stood  always 
to  him  for  uprightness  and  justice;  he  had  no  more  ques- 
tioned these  virtues  in  his  father  than  in  God.  Words  or 
acts  of  either  might  be  strange  or  incomprehensible,  yet  the 
virtues  themselves  remained  always  beyond  a  doubt;  and 
now,  with  the  opening  of  the  door  which  his  father's  first 
decision  had  accomplished,  a  crowd  of  questions  and  judg- 
ments had  rushed  in,  and  a  pillar  of  earth  and  heaven  was 
shaken  at  last.  ...  It  is  a  dreadful  day  when  for  the  first 
time  to  a  young  man  or  maiden,  any  shadow  of  God,  how- 
ever unworthy,  begins  to  tremble. 

He  understood  presently,  however,  what  an  elder  man, 
or  a  less  childish,  would  have  understood  at  once — that 
these  things  must  be  dealt  with  one  by  one,  and  that  that 
which  lay  nearest  to  his  hand  was  his  own  fault.  Even 
then  he  fought  with  his  conscience;  he  told  himself  that 
no  lad  of  spirit  could  tolerate  such  insults  against  his  love, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  injustice  against  himself  that  had  gone 
before;  but,  being  honest,  he  presently  inquired  of  what 
spirit  such  a  lad  would  be — not  of  that  spirit  which  Mar- 
jorie  would  approve,  nor  the  gentle-eyed  priest  he  had 
spoken  with.  .  .  . 

Well,  the  event  was  certain  with  such  as  Robin,  and  he 
was  presently  standing  at  the  door  of  his  room,  his  boots 
drawn  off  and  laid  aside,  listening,  with  a  heart  beating  in 
his  ears  to  hinder  him,  for  any  sound  from  beneath.  He 
did  not  know  whether  his  father  were  abed  or  not.  If  not, 
he  must  ask  his  pardon  at  once. 


50       COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

He  went  downstairs  at  last,  softly,  to  the  parlour,  and 
peeped  in.  All  was  dark,  except  for  the  glimmer  from  the 
stove,  and  his  heart  felt  lightened.  Then,  as  he  was  cold 
with  his  long  vigil  outside  his  bed,  he  stirred  the  embers 
into  a  blaze  and  stood  warming  himself. 

How  strange  and  passionless,  he  thought,  looked  this 
room,  after  the  tempest  that  had  raged  in  it  just  now.  The 
two  glasses  stood  there — his  own  not  quite  empty — and  the 
jug  between  them.  His  father's  chair  was  drawn  to  the 
table,  as  if  he  were  still  sitting  in  it;  his  own  was  flung  back 
as  he  had  pushed  it  from  him  in  his  passion.  There  was  an 
old  print  over  the  stove  at  which  he  looked  presently — it 
had  been  his  mother's,  and  he  remembered  it  as  long  as  his 
life  had  been — it  was  of  Christ  carrying  His  cross. 

His  shame  began  to  increase  on  him.  How  wickedly  he 
had  answered,  with  every  word  a  wound !  He  knew  that 
the  most  poisonous  of  them  all  were  false;  he  had  known 
it  even  while  he  spoke  them;  it  was  not  to  curry  favour 
with  her  Grace  that  his  father  had  lapsed;  it  was  that  his 
temper  was  tried  beyond  bearing  by  those  continual  fines 
and  rebuffs;  the  old  man's  patience  was  gone — that  was 
all.  And  he,  his  son,  had  not  said  one  word  of  comfort  or 
strength;  he  had  thought  of  himself  and  his  own  wrongs, 
and  being  reviled  he  had  reviled  again.  .  .  . 

There  stood  against  the  wall  between  the  windows  a 
table  and  an  oaken  desk  that  held  the  estate-bills  and 
books ;  and  beside  the  desk  were  laid  clean  sheets  of  paper, 
an  ink-pot,  a  pounce-box,  and  three  or  four  feather  pens. 
It  was  here  that  he  wrote,  being  newly  from  school,  at 
his  father's  dictation,  or  his  father  sometimes  wrote  him- 
self, with  pain  and  labour,  the  few  notices  or  letters  that 
were  necessary.  So  he  went  to  this  and  sat  down  at  it;  he 
pondered  a  little;  then  he  wrote  a  single  line  of  abject 
regret. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  51 

"  I  ask  your  pardon  and  God's,  sir,  for  the  wicked  words 
I  said  before  I  left  the  parlour.  R."  He  folded  this  and 
addressed  it  with  the  proper  superscription;  and  left  it 
lying  there. 


Ill 

It  was  a  strange  ride  that  he  had  back  from  Tansley  next 
morning  after  mass. 

Dick  Sampson  had  met  him  with  the  horses  in  the  stable- 
court  at  Matstead  a  little  after  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
Ing;  and  together  they  had  ridden  through  the  pitch  dark- 
ness, each  carrying  a  lantern  fastened  to  his  stirrup.  So 
complete  was  the  darkness,  however,  and  so  small  and  con- 
fined the  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  tossing  light,  that,  for 
all  they  saw,  they  might  have  been  riding  round  and  round 
in  a  garden.  Now  trees  showed  grim  and  towering  for  an 
instant,  then  gone  again;  now  their  eyes  were  upon  the 
track,  the  pools,  the  rugged  ground,  the  soaked  meadow- 
grass  ;  half  a  dozen  times  the  river  glimmered  on  their 
right,  turbid  and  forbidding.  Once  there  shone  in  the 
circle  of  light  the  eyes  of  some  beast — pig  or  stag ;  seen  and 
vanished  again. 

But  the  return  journey  was  another  matter;  for  they 
needed  no  lanterns,  and  the  dawn  rose  steadily  overhead, 
showing  all  that  they  passed  in  ghostly  fashion,  up  to  final 
solidity. 

It  resembled,  in  fact,  the  dawn  of  Faith  in  a  soul. 

First  from  the  darkness  outlines  only  emerged,  vast  and 
sinister,  of  such  an  appearance  that  it  was  impossible  to 
tell  their  proportions  or  distances'.  The  skyline  a  mile 
away,  beyond  the  Derwent,  might  have  been  the  edge  of 
a  bank  a  couple  of  yards  off;  the  glimmering  pool  on  the 
lower  meadow  path  might  be  the  lighted  window  of  a  house 


52  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

across  the  valley.  There  succeeded  to  outlines  a  kind  of 
shaded  tint,  all  worked  in  gray  like  a  print,  clear  enough 
to  distinguish  tree  from  boulder  and  sky  from  water,  yet 
not  clear  enough  to  show  the  texture  of  anything.  The  third 
stage  was  that  in  which  colours  began  to  appear,  yet  flat 
and  dismal,  holding,  it  seemed,  no  light,  yet  reflecting  it; 
and  all  in  an  extraordinary  cold  clearness?.  Nature  seemed 
herself,  yet  struck  to  dumbness.  No  breeze  stirred  the 
twigs  overhead  or  the  undergrowth  through  which  they  rode. 
Once,  as  the  two,  riding  a  little  apart,  turned  suddenly  to- 
gether, up  a  ravine  into  thicker  woods,  they  came  upon  a 
herd  of  deer,  who  stared  on  them  without  any  movement 
that  the  eye  could  see.  Here  a  stag  stood  with  two  hinds 
beside  him;  behind,  Robin  saw  the  backs  and  heads  of 
others'  that  lay  still.  Only  the  beasts  kept  their  eyes  upon 
them,  as  they  went,  watching,  as  if  it  were  a  picture  only 
that  went  by.  So,  by  little  and  little,  the  breeze  stirred  like 
a  waking  man;  cocks  crew  from  over  the  hills  one  to  the 
other;  dogs  barked  far  away,  till  the  face  of  the  world 
was  itself  again,  and  the  smoke  from  Matstead  rose  above 
the  trees  in  front. 

Robin  had  ridden  in  the  dawn  an  hundred  times  before; 
yet  never  before  had  he  so  perceived  that  strange  deliber- 
ateness  and  sleep  of  the  world;  and  he  had  ridden,  too, 
perhaps  twenty  times  at  such  an  hour,  with  his  father  be- 
side him,  after  mass  on  some  such  occasion.  Yet  it  seemed 
to  him  this  time  that  it  was  the  mass  which  he  had  seen, 
and  his  own  solitariness,  that  had  illuminated  his  eyes.  It 
was  dreadful  to  him — and  yet  it  threw  him  more  than  ever 
on  himself  and  God — that  his  father  would  ride  with  him 
so  no  more.  Henceforward  he  would  go  alone,  or  with  a 
servant  only;  he  would,  alone,  go  up  to  the  door  of  house 
or  barn  and  rap  four  times  with  his  riding-whip;  alone 
he  would  pass  upstairs  through  the  darkened  house  to  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  53 

shrouded  room,  garret  or  bed-chamber,  where  the  group 
was  assembled,  all  in  silence;  where  presently  a  dark  figure 
would  rise  and  light  the  pair  of  candles1,  and  then,  himself 
a  ghost,  vest  there  by  their  light,  throwing  huge  shadows 
on  wainscot  and  ceiling  as  his  arms  went  this  way  and 
that;  and  then,  alone  of  all  that  were  of  blood-relationship 
to  him,  he  would  witness  the  Holy  Sacrifice.  .  .  . 

How  long  that  would  be  so,  he  did  not  know.  Some- 
thing surely  must  happen  that  would  prevent  it.  Or,  at 
least,  some  day,  he  would  ride  so  with  Marjorie,  whom  he 
had  seen  this  morning  across  the  dusky  candle-lit  gloom, 
praying  in  a  corner;  or,  maybe,  with  her  would  entertain 
the  priest,  and  open  the  door  to  the  worshippers  who 
streamed  in,  like  bees  to  a  flower-garden,  from  farm  and 
manor  and  village.  He  could  not  for  ever  ride  alone  from 
Matstead  and  meet  his  father's  silence. 

One  thing  more,  too,  had  moved  him  this  morning;  and 
that,  the  sight  of  the  young  priest  at  the  altar  whom  he 
had  met  on  the  moor.  Here,  more  than  ever,  was  the 
gentle  priestliness  and  innocency  apparent.  He  stood 
there  ic  his  red  vestments;  he  moved  this  way  and  that; 
he  made  his  gestures;  he  spoke  in  undertones,  lit  only  by 
the  pair  of  wax-candles,  more  Levitical  than  ever  in 
such  a  guise,  yet  more  unsuited  than  ever  to  such  exterior 
circumstances.  Surely  this  man  should  say  mass  for  ever; 
yet  surely  never  again  ride  over  the  moors  to  do  it,  amidst 
enemies.  He  was  of  the  strong  castle  and  the  chamber, 
not  of  the  tent  and  the  battle.  .  .  .  And  yet  it  was  of  such 
soldiers  as  these,  as  well  as  of  the  sturdy  and  the  strong, 
that  Christ's  army  was  made. 

It  was  in  broad  daylight,  though  under  a  weeping  sky, 
that  Robin  rode  into  the  court  at  Matstead.  He  shook  the 
rain  from  his  cloak  within  the  screens,  and  stamped  to  gqf 


54  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  mud  away;  and,  as  he  lifted  his  hat  to  shake  it,  his 
father  came  in  from  the  pleasaunce. 

Robin  glanced  up  at  him,  swift  and  shy,  half  smiling, 
expecting  a  word  or  a  look.  His  father  must  surely  have 
read  his  little  letter  by  now,  and  forgiven  him.  But  the 
smile  died  away  again,  as  he  met  the  old  man's  eyes;  they 
were  as  hard  as  steel;  his  clean-shaven  lips  were  set  like 
a  trap,  and,  though  he  looked  at  his  son,  it  seemed  that  he 
did  not  see  him.  He  passed  through  the  screens  and  went 
down  the  steps  into  the  court. 

The  boy's  heart  began  to  beat  so  as  near  to  sicken  him 
after  his  long  fast  and  his  ride.  He  told  himself  that  his 
father  could  not  have  been  into  the  parlour  yet,  though 
he  knew,  even  while  he  thought  it,  that  this  was  false  com- 
fort. He  stood  there  an  instant,  waiting;  hoping  that 
even  now  his  father  would  call  to  him ;  but  the  strong  figure 
passed  resolutely  on  out  of  sight. 

Then  the  boy  went  into  the  hall,  and  swiftly  through  it. 
There  on  the  desk  in  the  window  lay  the  pen  he  had  flung 
down  last  night,  but  no  more;  the  letter  was  gone;  and,  as 
he  turned  away,  he  saw  lying  among  the  wood-ashes  of  the 
cold  stove  a  little  crumpled  ball.  He  stooped  and  drew 
it  out.  It  was  his  letter,  tossed  there  after  the  reading; 
his  father  had  not  taken  the  pains  to  keep  it  safe,  nor  even 
to  destroy  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  company  was  already  assembled  both  within  and 
without  Padley,  when  Robin  rode  up  from  the  riverside, 
on  a  fine,  windy  morning,  for  the  sport  of  the  day.  Per- 
haps a  dozen  horses  stood  tethered  at  the  entrance  to  the 
little  court,  with  a  man  or  two  to  look  after  them,  for 
the  greater  part  of  their  riders  were  already  within;  and  a 
continual  coining  and  going  of  lads  with  dogs ;  falconers 
each  with  his  cadge,  or  three-sided  frame  on  which  sat  the 
hawks;  a  barking  of  hounds,  a  screaming  of  birds1,  a  clatter 
of  voices  and  footsteps  in  the  court — all  this  showed  that 
the  boy  was  none  too  early.  A  man  stepped  forward  to 
take  his  mare  and  his  hawks;  and  Robin  slipped  from 
his  saddle  and  went  in. 

Padley  Hall  was  just  such  a  house  as  would  serve  a 
wealthy  gentleman  who  desired  a  small  country  estate  with 
sufficient  dignity  and  not  too  many  responsibilities.  It 
stood  upon  the  side  of  the  hill,  well  set-up  above  the  damps 
of  the  valley,  yet  protected  from  the  north-easterly  winds 
by  the  higher  slopes,  on  the  tops  of  which  lay  Burbage 
Moor,  where  the  hawking  was  to  be  held.  On  the  south, 
over  the  valley,  stood  out  the  modest  hall  and  buttery 
(as,  indeed,  they  stand  to  this  day),  with  a  door  between 
them,  well  buttressed  in  two  places  upon  the  falling  ground, 
in  one  by  a  chimney,  in  the  other  by  a  slope  of  masonry; 
and  behind  these  buildings  stood  the  rest  of  the  court, 
the  stables,  the  wash-house,  the  bake-house  and  such  like, 
below;  and,  above,  the  sleeping  rooms  for  the  family 

55 


56  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

and  the  servants.  On  the  first  floor,  above  the  butterj 
and  the  hall,  were  situated  the  ladies'  parlour  and  chapel; 
for  this,  at  least,  Padley  had,  however  little  its  dignity 
in  other  matters,  that  it  retained  its  chapel  served  in  these 
sorrowful  days  not,  as  once,  by  a  chaplain,  but  by  what- 
ever travelling  priest  might  be  there. 

Robin  entered  through  the  great  gate  on  the  east  side — a 
dark  entrance  kept  by  a  porter  who  saluted  him — and 
rode  through  into  the  court;  and  here,  indeed,  was  the 
company;  for  out  of  the  windows  of  the  low  hall  on  his 
left  came  a  babble  of  tongues,  while  two  or  three  gentlemen 
with  pots  in  their  hands  saluted  him  from  the  passage 
door,  telling  him  that  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert  was  within. 
Mr.  Fenton  was  one  of  these,  come  over  from  North  Lees, 
where  he  had  his  manor,  a  brisk,  middle-aged  man,  dressed 
soberly  and  well,  with  a  pointed  beard  and  pleasant, 
dancing  eyes. 

"  And  Mr.  John,  too,  came  last  night,"  he  said ;  "  but 
he  will  not  hawk  with  us.  He  is  ridden  from  London  on 
private  matters." 

It  was  an  exceedingly  gay  sight  on  which  Robin  looked 
as  he  turned  into  the  hall.  It  was  a  low  room,  ceiled  in 
oak  and  wainscoted  half-way  up,  a  trifle  dark,  since  it 
was  lighted  only  by  one  or  two  little  windows  on  either 
side,  yet  warm  and  hospitable  looking;  with  a  great  fire 
burning  in  a  chimney  on  the  south  side,  and  perhaps  a 
dozen  and  a  half  persons  sitting  over  their  food  and  drink, 
since  they  were  dining  early  to-day  to  have  the  longer 
time  for  sport. 

A  voice  hailed  him  as  he  came  in;  and  he  went  up  to 
pay  his  respects  to  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert,  a  tall  man, 
well  past  middle-age,  who  sat  with  his  hat  on  his  head,  at 
the  centre  of  the  high  table,  with  the  arms  of  Eyre  and 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  57 

FitzHerbert  beneath  the  canopy,  all  emblazoned,  to  do 
the  honours  of  the  day. 

"  You  are  late,  sir,  you  are  late !  "  he  cried  out  genially. 
"  We  are  just  done." 

Robin  saluted  him.  He  liked  this  man,  though  he  did 
not  know  him  very  well;  for  he  was  continually  about  the 
country,  now  in  London,  now  at  Norbury,  now  at  Swin- 
nerton,  always  occupied  with  these  endless  matters  of  fines 
and  recusancy. 

Robin  saluted  him  then,  and  said  a  word  or  two;  bowed 
to  Mr.  Thomas,  his  son,  who  came  up  to  speak  with  him; 
and  then  looked  for  Marjorie.  She  sat  there,  at  the  corner 
of  the  table,  with  Mrs.  Fenton  at  one  side,  and  an  empty 
seat  on  the  other.  Robin  immediately  sat  down  in  it,  to  eat 
his  dinner,  beginning  with  the  "  gross  foods,"  according 
to  the  English  custom.  There  was  a  piece  of  Christmas 
brawn  to-day,  from  a  pig  fattened  on  oats  and  peas,  and 
hardened  by  being  lodged  (while  he  lived)  on  a  boarded 
floor;  all  this  was  told  Robin  across  the  table  with  par- 
ticularity, while  he  ate  it,  and  drank,  according  to  etiquette, 
a  cup  of  bastard.  He  attended  to  all  this  zealously,  while 
never  for  an  instant  was  he  unaware  of  the  girl. 

They  tricked  their  elders  very  well,  these  two  innocent 
ones.  You  would  have  sworn  that  Robin  looked  for  another 
place  and  could  not  see  one,  you  would  have  sworn  that 
they  were  shy  of  one  another,  and  spoke  scarcely  a  dozen 
sentences.  Yet  they  did  very  well  each  in  the  company  of 
the  other;  and  Robin,  indeed,  before  he  had  finished  his 
partridge,  had  conveyed  to  her  that  there  was  news  that 
he  had,  and  must  give  to  her  before  the  day  was  out. 
She  looked  at  him  with  enough  dismay  in  her  face  for  him 
at  least  to  read  it;  for  she  knew  by  his  manner  that  it 
would  not  be  happy  news. 

So,  too,  when  the  fruit  was  done  and  dinner  was  over 


58  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

(for  they  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  at  any  length),  again 
you  would  have  sworn  that  the  last  idea  in  his  mind,  as  in 
hers,  was  that  he  should  be  the  one  to  help  her  to  her 
saddle.  Yet  he  did  so;  and  he  fetched  her  hawk  for  her, 
and  settled  her  reins  in  her  hand ;  and  presently  he  on  one 
side  of  her,  with  Mr.  Fenton  on  the  other  side,  were  riding 
up  through  Padley  chase;  and  the  talk  and  the  laughter 
went  up  too. 

II 

Up  on  the  high  moors,  in  the  frank-chase,  here  indeed 
was  a  day  to  make  sad  hearts  rejoice.  The  air  was  soft, 
as  if  spring  were  come  before  his  time;  and  in  the  great 
wind  that  blew  continually  from  the  south-west,  bearing  the 
high  clouds  swiftly  against  the  blue,  ruffling  the  stiff 
heather-twigs  and  bilberry  beneath — here  was  wine  enough 
for  any  mourners.  Before  them,  as  they  went — two  riding 
before,  with  falconers  on  either  side  a  little  behind  and  the 
lads  with  the  dogs  beside  them,  and  the  rest  in  a  silent 
line  some  twenty  yards  to  the  rear — stretched  the  wide, 
flat  moor  like  a  tumbled  table-cloth,  broken  here  and  there 
by  groups  of  wind-tossed  beech  and  oak,  backed  by  the 
tall  limestone  crags  like  pillar-capitals  of  an  upper  world; 
with  here  and  there  a  little  shallow  quarry  whence  marble 
had  been  taken  for  Derby.  Bui  more  lovely  than  all 
were  the  valleys,  seen  from  here,  as  great  troughs  up  whose 
sides  trooped  the  leafless  trees — lit  by  the  streams  that 
threw  back  the  sunlit  sky  from  their  bosoms;  with  here  a 
mist  of  smoke  blown  all  about  from  a  village  out  of  sight, 
here  the  shadow  of  a  travelling  cloud  that  fled  as  swift 
as  the  wind  that  drove  it,  extinguishing  the  flash  of  water 
only  to  release  it  again,  darkening  a  sweep  of  land  only 
to  make  the  sunlight  that  followed  it  the  more  sweet. 

Yet  the  two  saw  little  of  this,  dear  and  familiar  as  they 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  59 

found  it;  since,  first  they  rode  together,  and  next,  as  it 
should  be  with  young  hearts,  the  sport  presently  began  and 
drove  all  else  away. 

The  sport  was  done  in  this  way: 

The  two  that  rode  in  front  selected  each  from  the  cadge 
one  of  his  own  falcons  (it  was1  peregrines  that  were  used 
at  the  beginning  of  the  day,  since  they  were  first  after 
partridges),  and  so  rode,  carrying  his  falcon  on  his  wrist, 
hooded,  belled,  and  in  the  leash,  ready  to  cast  off.  Imme- 
diately before  them  went  a  lad  with  a  couple  of  dogs  to  nose 
the  game — these  also  in  a  leash  until  they  stiffened.  Then 
the  lad  released  them  and  stepped  softly  back,  while  the 
riders  moved  on  at  a  foot's-pace,  and  the  spaniels  behind 
rose  on  their  hind  legs,  choked  by  the  chain,  whimpering, 
fifty  yards  in  the  rear.  Slowly  the  dogs  advanced,  each  a 
frozen  model  of  craft  and  blood-lust,  till  an  instant  after- 
wards, with  a  whir  and  a  chattering  like  a  broken  clock, 
the  covey  whirled  from  the  thick  growth  underfoot,  and 
flashed  away  northwards;  and,  a  moment  later,  up  went 
the  peregrines  behind  them.  Then,  indeed,  it  was  sauve 
qui  pent,  for  the  ground  was  full  of  holes  here  and  there, 
though  there  were  grass-stretches  as  well  on  which  all 
rode  with  loose  rein,  the  two  whose  falcons  were  sprung 
always  in  front,  according  to  custom,  and  the  rest  in  a 
medley  behind.  Away  then  went  the  birds,  pursued  and 
pursuers',  till,  like  a  falling  star  the  falcon  stooped,  and 
then,  maybe,  the  other  a  moment  later,  down  upon  the 
quarry ;  and  a  minute  later  there  was  the  falcon  back 
again  shivering  with  pride  and  ecstasy,  or  all  ruffle- 
feathered  with  shame,  back  on  his  master's  wrist,  and 
another  torn  partridge,  or  maybe  two,  in  the  bottom  of 
the  lad's  bag;  and  arguments  went  full  pelt,  and  cries, 
and  sometimes  sharp  words',  and  faults  were  found,  anc 
praise  was  given,  and  so,  on  for  another  pair. 


60  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

It  was  but  natural  that  Robin  and  Marjorie  should  com- 
pete one  against  the  other,  for  they  were  riding  together 
and  talked  together.  So  presently  Mr.  Thomas  called  to 
them,  and  beckoned  them  to  their  places.  Robin  set  aside 
Agnes  on  to  the  cadge  and  chose  Magdalen,  and  Marjorie 
chose  Sharpie.  The  array  was  set,  and  all  moved  forward. 

It  was?  a  short  chase  and  a  merry  one.  Two  birds  rose 
from  the  heather  and  flew  screaming,  skimming  low,  as 
from  behind  them  moved  on  the  shadows  of  death,  still  as 
clouds,  with  great  noiseless  sweeps  of  sickle-shaped  wings. 
Behind  came  the  gallopers;  Marjorie  on  her  black  horse, 
Robin  on  Cecily,  seeming  to  compete,  yet  each  content  if 
either  won,  each,  maybe — or  at  least  Marjorie — desiring 
that  the  other  should  win.  And  the  wind  screamed  past 
them  as  they  went. 

Then  came  the  stoops — together  as  if  fastened  by  one 
string — faultless  and  exquisite;  and,  as  the  two  rode  up 
and  drew  rein,  there,  side  by  side  on  the  windy  turf,  two 
fierce  statues  of  destiny — cruel-eyed,  blood-stained  on  the 
beaks,  resolute  and  suspicious — eyed  them  motionless,  the 
claws  sunk  deeply  through  back  and  head — awaiting  re- 
capture. 

Marjorie  turned  swiftly  to  the  boy  as  he  leaped  off. 

"  In  the  chapel,"  she  said,  "  at  Padley." 

Robin  stared  at  her.  Then  he  understood  and  nodded 
his  head,  as  Mr.  Thomas  rode  up,  his  beard  all  blown 
about  by  the  wind,  breathless  but  congratulatory. 

Ill 

It  fell  on  Robin's  mind  with  a  certain  heaviness  and 
reproach  that  it  should  have  been  she  who  should  have 
carried  in  her  head  all  day  the  unknown  news  that  he  was 
to  give  her,  and  he  who  should  have  forgotten  it.  He  under- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  6l 

stood  then  a  little  better  of  all  that  he  must  be  to  her, 
since,  as  he  turned  to  her  (his  head  full  of  hawks,  and 
the  glory  of  the  shouting  wind,  and  every  thought  of  Faith 
and  father  clean  blown  away),  it  was  to  her  mind  that 
the  under-thought  had  leapt,  that  here  was  their  first,  and 
perhaps  their  last,  chance  of  speaking  in  private. 

It  was  indeed  their  last  chance,  for  the  sun  already 
atood  over  Chapel-le-Frith  far  away  to  the  south-west;  and 
they  must  begin  their  circle  to  return,  in  which  the  ladies 
should  fly  their  merlins  after  larks,  and  there  was  no  hope 
henceforth  for  Robin.  Henceforth  she  rode  with  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  and  two  or  three  more,  while  the  gentlemen  who  loved 
sport  more  than  courtesy,  turned  to  the  left  over  the 
broken  ground  to  work  back  once  more  after  partridges. 
And  Robin  dared  no  more  ride  with  his  love,  for  fear  that 
his  company  all  day  with  her  should  be  marked. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  sunset  that  Robin,  riding 
ahead,  having  lost  a  hawk  and  his  hat,  having  fallen  into 
a  bog-hole,  being  one  mask  of  mud  from  head  to  foot, 
slid  from  his  horse  into  Dick's  hands  and  demanded  if  the 
ladies  were  back. 

"Yes,  sir;  they  are  back  half  an  hour  ago.  They  are 
in  the  parlour." 

Robin  knew  better.  "  I  shall  be  riding  in  ten  minutes," 
he  said ;  "  give  the  mare  a  mouthful." 

He  limped  across  the  court,  and  looking  behind  him  to 
see  if  any  saw,  and  finding  the  court  at  that  instant  empty, 
ran  up,  as  well  as  he  could,  the  stone  staircase  that  rose 
from  the  outside  to  the  chapel  door.  It  was  unlatched.  He 
pushed  it  open  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  brave  thing  that  the  FitzHerberts  did  in  keep- 
Ing  such  a  place  at  all,  since  the  greatest  Protestant  fool 


62  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

in  the  valley  knew  what  the  little  chamber  was  that  had 
the  angels  carved  on  the  beam-ends,  and  the  piscina  in 
the  south  wall.  Windows  looked  out  every  way;  through 
those  on  the  south  could  be  seen  now  the  darkening  valley 
and  the  sunlit  hills,  and,  yet  more  necessary,  the  road  by 
which  any  travellers  from  the  valley  must  surely  come. 
Within,  too,  scarcely  any  pains  were  taken  to  disguise  the 
place.  It  was  wainscoted  from  roof  to  floor — ceiled,  floored 
and  walled  in  oak.  A  great  chest  stood  beneath  the  little 
east  window  of  two  lights,  that  cried  "  Altar  "  if  any  chest 
ever  did  so.  A  great  press  stood  against  the  wooden 
screen  that  shut  the  room  from  the  ladies'  parlour  next 
door;  filled  in  three  shelves  with  innocent  linen,  for  this 
was  the  only  disguise  that  the  place  stooped  to  put  on. 
You  could  not  swear  that  mass  was  said  there,  but  you 
could  swear  that  it  was  a  place  in  which  mass  would  very 
suitably  be  said.  A  couple  of  benches  were  against  the 
press,  and  three  or  four  chairs  stood  about  the  floor. 

Robin  saw  her  against  the  light  as  soon  as  he  came  in. 
She  was  still  in  her  blue  riding-dress,  with  the  hood  on 
her  shoulders,  and  held  her  whip  in  her  hand;  but  he 
could  see  no  more  of  her  head  than  the  paleness  of  her 
face  and  the  gleam  on  her  black  hair. 

"  Well,  then  ? "  she  whispered  sharply ;  and  then : 
"  Why,  what  a  state  you  are  in !  " 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Robin.     "  I  rolled  in  a  bog-hole." 

She  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

"  You  are  not  hurt?  ...  Sit  down  at  least." 

He  sat  down  stiffly,  and  she  beside  him,  still  watching 
to  see  if  he  were  the  worse  for  his  falling.  He  took  her 
band  in  his. 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  touch  you,"  he  said. 

"  Tell  me  the  news ;  tell  me  quickly." 

So  he  told  her;  of  the  wrangle  in  the  parlour  and  what 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  63 

had  passed  between  his  father  and  him;  of  his  own  bitter- 
ness; and  his  letter,  and  the  way  in  which  the  old  man  had 
taken  it. 

"  He  has  not  spoken  to  me  since/'  he  said,  "  except  in 
public  before  the  servants.  Both  nights  after  supper  he 
has  sat  silent  and  I  beside  him." 

"  And  you  have  not  spoken  to  him?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  I  said  something  to  him  after  supper  on  Sunday,  and 
he  made  no  answer.  He  has  done  all  his  writing  himself. 
I  think  it  is  for  him  to  speak  now.  I  should  only  anger 
him  more  if  I  tried  it  again." 

She  sighed  suddenly  and  swiftly,  but  said  nothing.  Her 
hand  lay  passive  in  his,  but  her  face  was  turned  now  to  the 
bright  southerly  window,  and  he  could  see  her  puzzled  eyes 
and  her  down-turned,  serious  mouth.  She  was  thinking 
with  all  her  wits,  and,  plainly,  could  come  to  no  con- 
clusion. 

She  turned  to  him  again. 

"  And  you  told  him  plainly  that  you  and  I  ...  that 
you  and  I " 

"  That  you  and  I  loved  one  another  ?  I  told  him  plainly. 
And  it  was  his  contempt  that  angered  me." 

She  sighed  again. 

It  was  a  troublesome  situation  in  which  these  two  chil- 
dren found  themselves.  Here  was  the  father  of  one  of 
them  that  knew,  yet  not  the  parents  of  the  other,  who  should 
know  first  of  all.  Neither  was  there  any  promise  of  secrecy 
and  no  hope  of  obtaining  it.  If  she  should  not  tell  her 
parents,  then  if  the  old  man  told  them,  deception  would 
be  charged  against  her;  and  if  she  should  tell  them,  per- 
haps he  would  not  have  done  so,  and  so  all  be  brought  to 
light  too  soon  and  without  cause.  And  besides  all  this 
there  were  the  other  matters,  heavy  enough  before,  yet  far 


64  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

more  heavy  now — matters  of  their  hopes  for  the  future,  the 
complications  with  regard  to  the  Religion,  what  Robin 
should  do,  what  he  should  not  do. 

So  they  sat  there  silent,  she  thinking  and  he  waiting 
upon  her  thought. 

She  sighed  again  and  turned  to  him  her  troubled  eyes. 

"  My  Robin,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  so  much 
about  you,  and  I  have  feared  sometimes " 

She  stopped  herself,  and  he  looked  for  her  to  finish.  She 
drew  her  hand  away  and  stood  up. 

"  Oh !  it  is  miserable !  "  she  cried.  "  And  all  might  have 
been  so  happy." 

The  tears  suddenly  filled  her  eyes  so  that  they  shone  like 
flowers  in  dew. 

He  stood  up,  too,  and  put  his  muddy  arm  about  hei 
shoulders.  (She  felt  so  slight  and  slender.) 

"  It  will  be  happy,"  he  said.  "  What  have  you  been 
fearing?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  the  tears  ran  down. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  yet.  .  .  .  Robin,  what  a  holy  man 
that  travelling  priest  must  be,  who  said  mass  on  Sun- 
day." 

The  lad  was  bewildered  at  her  swift  changes  of  thought, 
for  he  did  not  yet  see  the  chain  on  which  they  hung.  He 
strove  to  follow  her. 

"  It  seemed  so  to  me  too,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  have 
never  seen " 

"  It  seemed  so  to  you  too,"  she  cried.  "  Why,  what  do 
you  know  of  him?" 

He  was  amazed  at  her  vehemence.  She  had  drawn  her- 
self clear  of  his  arm  and  was  looking  at  him  full  in  the 
face. 

"  I  met  him  on  the  moor,"  he  said.  "  I  had  some  talk 
with  him.  I  got  his  blessing." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  65 

"  You  got  his  blessing !  Why,  so  did  I,  after  the  mass, 
when  you  were  gone." 

"  Then  that  should  join  us  more  closely  than  ever/'  he 
said. 

"  In  Heaven,  perhaps,  but  on  earth "  She  checked 

herself  again.  "  Tell  me  what  you  thought  of  him,  Robin." 

"  I  thought  it  was  strange  that  such  a  man  as  that  should 
live  such  a  rough  life.  If  he  were  in  the  seminary  now, 
safe  at  Douay " 

She  seemed  a  shade  paler,  but  her  eyes1  did  not  flicker. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  And  you  thought ?  " 

"  I  thought  that  it  was  not  that  kind  of  man  who  should 
fare  so  hardly.  If  it  were  a  man  like  John  Merton,  who 
is  accustomed  to  such  things,  or  a  man  like  me " 

Again  he  stopped;  he  did  not  know  why.  But  it  was  as 
if  she  had  cried  out,  though  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"  You  thought  that,  did  you,  Robin?  "  she  said  presently, 
never  moving  her  eyes  from  his  face.  "  I  thought  so,  too." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  why  we  are  talking  about  Mr.  Simp- 
son," said  the  lad.  "  There  are  other  affairs  more  press- 
ing." 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  said  she. 

"  Marjorie,  my  love,  what  are  you  thinking  about?  " 

She  had  turned  her  eyes  and  was  looking  out  through 
the  little  window.  Outside  the  red  sunlight  still  lay  on 
the  crags  and  slopes  beyond  the  deep  valley  beneath  them, 
and  her  face  was  bright  in  the  reflected  brightness.  Yet 
he  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  serious.  She 
turned  her  eyes  back  to  him  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  a  great  many  things,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  thinking  of  the  Faith  and  of  sorrow  and  of  love." 

"  My  love,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Suddenly  she  made  a  swift  movement  towards1  him  and 
took  him  by  the  lapels.  He  could  see  her  face  close  be- 


66  COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE! 

neath  his,  yet  it  was  in  shadow  again,  and  he  could  make 
out  of  it  no  more  than  the  shadows  of  mouth  and  eyes. 

"  Robin,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  unless  God  telk 
you  Himself.  I  am  told  that  I  am  too  scrupulous1  some- 
times. ...  I  do  not  know  what  I  think,  nor  what  is  right, 
nor  what  are  fancies.  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  but  I  know  that  I 
love  you  with  all  my  heart  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  that  I  can- 
not bear " 

Then  her  face  was  on  his  breast  in  a  passion  of  weeping, 
and  his  arms  were  round  her,  and  his  lips  on  her  hair. 


IV 

Dick  found  his  master  a  poor  travelling  companion  as 
they  rode  home.  He  made  a  few  respectful  remarks  as 
to  the  sport  of  the  day,  but  he  was  answered  by  a  wander- 
ing eye  and  a  complete  lack  of  enthusiasm.  Mr.  Robin 
rode  loosely  and  heavily.  Three  or  four  times  his  mare 
stumbled  (and  no  wonder,  after  all  that  she  had  gone 
through),  and  he  jerked  her  savagely. 

Then  Dick  tried  another  tack  and  began  to  speak  of  the 
company,  but  with  no  greater  success.  He  discoursed  on 
the  riding  of  Mrs.  Fenton,  and  the  peregrine  of  Mr. 
Thomas,  who  had  distinguished  herself  that  day,  and  he 
was  met  by  a  lack-lustre  eye  once  more. 

Finally  he  began  to  speak  of  the  religious  gossip  of 
the  countryside — how  it  was  said  that  another  priest,  a 
Mr.  Nelson,  had  been  taken  in  London,  as  Mr.  Maine 
had  been  in  Cornwall;  that,  it  was  said  again,  priests 
would  have  to  look  to  their  lives  in  future,  and  not  only 
to  their  liberty;  how  the  priest,  Mr.  Simpson,  was  said 
to  be  a  native  of  Yorkshire,  and  how  he  was  ridden  north- 
wards again,  still  with  Mr.  Ludlam.  And  here  he  met  with 
a  little  more  encouragement.  Mr.  Robin  asked  where 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  67 

was  Mr.  Simpson  gone  to,  and  Dick  told  him  he  did  not 
know,  but  that  he  would  be  back  again  by  Easter,  it  was 
thought,  or,  if  not,  another  priest  would  be  in  the  district. 
Then  he  began  to  gossip  of  Mr.  Ludlam;  how  a  man  had 
told  him  that  his  cousin's  wife  thought  that  Mr.  Ludlam 
was  to  go  abroad  to  be  made  priest  himself,  and  that 
perhaps  Mr.  Garlick  would  go  too. 

"  That  is  the  kind  of  priest  we  want,  sir,"  said  Dick. 

"Eh?" 

"  That  is  the  kind  of  priest  we  want,  sir,"  repeated 
Dick  solemnly.  "  We  should  do  better  with  natives  than 
foreigners.  We  want  priests  who  know  the  county  and 
the  ways  of  the  people — and  men  too,  I  think,  sir,  who 
can  ride  and  know  something  of  sport,  and  can  talk  of 
it.  I  told  Mr.  Simpson,  sir,  of  the  sport  we  were  to  have 
to-day,  and  he  seemed  to  care  nothing  about  it !  " 

Robin  sighed  aloud. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said. 

"  Mr.  John  looked  well,  sir,"  pursued  Dick,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  speak  at  length  of  the  FitzHerbert  troubles, 
and  the  iniquities  of  the  Queen's  Grace.  He  was  such 
a  man  as  was  to  be  found  throughout  all  England  every- 
where at  this  time — a  man  whose  religion  was  a  part  of 
his  politics,  and  none  the  less  genuine  for  that.  He  was 
a  shrewd  man  in  his  way,  with  the  simplicity  which  be- 
longs to  such  shrewdness ;  he  disliked  the  new  ways  which 
he  experienced  chiefly  in  the  towns1,  and  put  them  down, 
not  wholly  without  justice,  to  the  change  of  which  reli- 
gion formed  an  integral  part;  he  hated  the  beggars  and 
would  gladly  have  gone  to  see  one  flogged;  and  he  dis- 
liked the  ministers  and  their  sermons  and  their  "  prophe- 
syings  "  with  all  the  healthy  ardour  of  prejudice.  Once 
in  the  year  did  Dick  approach  the  sacraments,  and  a 
great  business  he  made  of  it,  being  unusually  morose  be- 


68  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

fore  them  and  almost  indecently  boisterous  after  them. 
He  was  feudal  to  the  very  heart  of  him;  and  it  was  his 
feudality  that  made  him  faithful  to  his  religion  as  well 
as  to  his  masters,  for  either  of  which  he  would  resolutely 
have  died.  And  what  in  the  world  he  would  do  when  he 
discovered,  at  Easter,  that  the  objects  of  his  fidelity  were 
to  take  opposite  courses,  Robin  could  not  conceive. 

As  they  rode  in  at  last,  Robin,  who  had  fallen  silent 
again  after  Dick's  last  piece  of  respectful  vehemence, 
suddenly  beat  his  own  leg  with  his  whip  and  uttered  an 
inaudible  word.  It  seemed  to  Dick  that  the  young  mas- 
ter had  perceived  clearly  that  which  plainly  had  been 
worrying  him  all  the  way  home,  and  that  he  did  not 
like  it. 


CHAPTER  V 


MR.  MANNERS  sat  in  his  parlour  ten  days  after  the  begin- 
ning of  Lent,  full  of  his  Sunday  dinner  and  of  perplexing 
thoughts  all  at  once.  He  had  eaten  well  and  heartily  after 
his  week  of  spare  diet,  and  then,  while  in  high  humour 
with  all  the  world,  first  his  wife  and  then  his  daughter 
had  laid  before  him  such  revelations  that  all  the  pleasure 
of  digestion  was  gone.  It  was  but  three  minutes  ago  that 
Marjorie  had  fled  from  him  in  a  torrent  of  tears,  for  which 
he  could  not  see  himself  responsible,  since  he  had  done 
nothing  but  make  the  exclamations  and  comments  that 
should  be  expected  of  a  father  in  such  a  case. 

The  following  were  the  points  for  his  reflection — to  begin 
with  those  that  touched  him  less  closely. 

First  that  his  friend  Mr.  Audrey,  whom  he  had  always 
looked  upon  with  reverence  and  a  kind  of  terror  because 
of  his  hotness  in  matters  of  politics  and  religion,  had 
capitulated  to  the  enemy  and  was  to  go  to  church  at  Easter. 
Mr.  Manners  himself  had  something  of  timidity  in  his 
nature:  he  was  conservative  certainly,  and  practised,  when 
he  could  without  bringing  himself  into  open  trouble,  the 
old  religion  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up.  He,  like 
the  younger  generation,  had  been  educated  at  Derby  Gram- 
mar School,  and  in  his  youth  had  sat  with  his  parents  in 
the  nave  of  the  old  Cluniac  church  of  St.  James  to  hear 
mass.  He  had  then  entered  his  father's  office  in  Derby, 
about  the  time  that  the  Religious  Houses  had  fallen,  and 
had  transferred  the  scene  of  his  worship  to  St.  Peter's. 
At  Queen  Mary's  accession,  he  had  stood,  with  mild  but 


70  COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE! 

genuine  enthusiasm,  in  his  lawyer's  gown,  in  the  train  of 
the  sheriff  who  proclaimed  her  in  Derby  market-place; 
and  stood  in  the  crowd,  with  corresponding  dismay,  six 
years  later  to  shout  for  Queen  Elizabeth.  Since  that 
date,  for  the  first  eleven  years  he  had  gone,  as  did  other 
Catholics,  to  his  parish  church  secretly,  thankful  that  there 
was  no  doubt  as  to  the  priesthood  of  his  parson,  to  hear 
the  English  prayers;  and  then,  to  do  him  justice,  though 
he  heard  with  something  resembling  consternation  the  de- 
cision from  Rome  that  compromise  must  cease  and  that, 
henceforth,  all  true  Catholics  must  withdraw  themselves 
from  the  national  worship,  he  had  obeyed  without  even  a 
serious  moment  of  consideration.  He  had  always  feared 
that  it  might  be  so,  understanding  that  delay  in  the  de- 
cision was  only  caused  by  the  hope  that  even  now  the 
breach  might  not  be  final  or  complete;  and  so  was  better 
prepared  for  the  blow  when  it  came.  Since  that  time  he 
had  heard  mass  when  he  could,  and  occasionally  even  har- 
boured priests,  urged  thereto  by  his  wife  and  daughter; 
and,  for  the  rest,  still  went  into  Derby  for  three  or  four 
days  a  week  to  carry  on  his  lawyer's  business,  with  Mr. 
Biddell  his  partner,  and  had  the  reputation  of  a  sound  and 
careful  man  without  bigotry  or  passion. 

It  was,  then,  a  shock  to  his  love  of  peace  and  serenity, 
to  hear  that  yet  another  Catholic  house  had  fallen,  and 
that  Mr.  Audrey,  one  of  his  clients,  could  no  longer  be 
reckoned  as  one  of  his  co-religionists. 

The  next  point  for  his  reflection  was  that  Robin  was 
refusing  to  follow  his  father's  example;  the  third,  that 
somebody  must  harbour  the  boy  over  Easter,  and  that,  in 
his  daughter's  violently  expressed  opinion,  and  with  his 
wife's  consent,  he,  Thomas  Manners,  was  the  proper  person 
to  do  it.  Last,  that  it  was  plain  that  there  was  something 
between  his  daughter  and  this  boy,  though  what  that  was 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  71 

he  had  been  unable  to  understand.  Marjorie  had  flown 
suddenly  from  the  room  just  as  he  was  beginning  to  put 
his  questions. 

It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  his  peace  of  mind  was  gone. 
Not  only  were  large  principles  once  more  threatened — con- 
siderations of  religion  and  loyalty,  but  also  those  small  and 
intimate  principles  which,  so  far  more  than  great  ones, 
agitate  the  mind  of  the  individual.  He  did  not  wish  to 
lose  a  client;  yet  neither  did  he  wish  to  be  unfriendly  to  a 
young  confessor  for  the  faith.  Still  less  did  he  wish 
to  lose  his  daughter,  above  all  to  a  young  man  whose  pros- 
pects seemed  to  be  vanishing.  He  wondered  whether  it 
would  be  prudent  to  consult  Mr.  Biddell  on  the  point.  .  .  . 

He  was  a  small  and  precise  man  in  his  body  and  face,  as 
well  as  in  his  dress;  his  costume  was,  of  course,  of  black; 
but  he  went  so  far  as  to  wear  black  buckles,  too,  on  his 
shoes',  and  a  black  hilt  on  his  sword.  His  face  was  little 
and  anxious;  his  eyebrows  were  perpetually  arched,  as  if 
in  appeal,  and  he  was  accustomed,  when  in  deep  thought, 
to  move  his  lips  as  if  in  a  motion  of  tasting.  So,  then,  he 
sat  before  his  fire  to-day  after  dinner,  his  elbow  on  the 
table  where  his  few  books  lay,  his  feet  crossed  before  him, 
his  cup  of  drink  untouched  at  his  side;  and  meantime  he 
tasted  continually  with  his  lips,  as  if  better  to  appreciate 
the  values  and  significances  of  the  points  for  his  consid- 
eration. 

It  would  be  about  half  an  hour  later  that  the  door  opened 
once  more  and  Marjorie  came  in  again. 

She  was  in  her  fine  dress  to-day — fine,  that  is,  according 
to  the  exigencies  of  the  time  and  place,  though  sober 
enough  if  for  a  town-house — in  a  good  blue  silk,  rather 
dark,  with  a  little  ruff,  with  lace  ruffles  at  her  wrists,  and 


72  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

a  quilted  petticoat,  and  silver  buckles.  For  she  was  a 
gentleman's  daughter,  quite  clearly,  and  not  a  yeoman's, 
and  she  must  dress  to  her  station.  Her  face  was  very  pale 
and  quite  steady.  She  stood  opposite  her  father. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  J  am  very  sorry  for  having  be- 
haved like  a  goose.  You  were  quite  right  to  ask  those 
questions,  and  I  have  come  back  to  answer  them." 

He  had  ceased  tasting  as  she  came  in.  He  looked  at  her 
timidly  and  yet  with  an  attempt  at  severity.  He  knew 
what  was  due  from  him  as  a  father.  But  for  the  present 
he  had  forgotten  what  questions  they  were;  his  mind  had 
been  circling  so  wildly. 

"  You  are  right  to  come  back,"  he  said,  "  you  should 
not  have  left  me  so." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  again. 

"  Well,  then — you  tell  me  that  Mr.  Robin  has  nowhere 
else  to  go." 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"  He  has  ten  places  to  go  to.  He  has  plenty  of  friends. 
But  none  have  the  right  that  we  have.  He  is  a  neighbour; 
it  was  to  me,  first  of  all,  that  he  told  the  trouble." 

Then  he  remembered. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I  must  understand  much  better 
first.  I  do  not  understand  why  he  came  to  you  first.  Why 
not,  if  he  must  come  to  this  house  at  all — why  not  to  me? 
I  like  the  lad;  he  knows  that  well  enough." 

He  spoke  with  an  admirable  dignity,  and  began  to  feel 
more  happy  in  consequence. 

She  had  sat  down  as  he  told  her,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table;  but  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  he  had,  perhaps,"  she 
said.  "  But " 

"  Yes?     What  '  But '  is  that?  " 

Then  she  faced  him,  and  her  eyes  were  swimming. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  73 

"  Father,  he  told  me  first  because  he  loves  me,  and  be- 
cause I  love  him." 

He  sat  up.  This  was  speaking  outright  what  she  had 
only  hinted  at  before.  She  must  have  been  gathering  her 
resolution  to  say  this,  while  she  had  been  gone.  Perhaps 
she  had  been  with  her  mother.  In  that  case  he  must  be 
cautious.  .  .  . 

"  You  mean " 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say.  We  love  one  another,  and  I 
am  willing  to  be  his  wife  if  he  desires  it — and  with  your 
permission.  But " 

He  waited  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  Another  '  But '  !  "  he  said  presently,  though  with  in- 
creasing mildness. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will  desire  it  after  a  while.  And  .  .  . 
and  I  do  not  know  what  I  wish.  I  am  torn  in  two." 

"  But  you  are  willing?  " 

"  I  pray  for  it  every  night,"  she  cried  piteously.  "  And 
every  morning  I  pray  that  it  may  not  be  so." 

She  was  staring  at  him  as  if  in  agony,  utterly  unlike 
what  he  had  looked  for  in  her.  He  was  completely  be' 
wildered. 

"  I  do  not  understand  one  word " 

Then  she  threw  herself  at  his  knees  and  seized  his  hands  ; 
her  face  was  all  torn  with  pain. 

"  And  I  cannot  explain  one  word.  .  .  .  Father,  I  am  in 
misery.  You  must  pray  for  me  and  have  patience  with 
me.  ...  I  must  wait  ...  I  must  wait  and  see  what  God 
wishes." 

"  Now,  now  .  .  ." 

"  Father,  you  will  trust  me,  will  you  not?  " 

"  Listen  to  me.     You  must  tell  me  this.     Do  you  love 
this  boy?  " 
"Yes,  yes." 


74  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  And  you  have  told  him  so?     He  asked  you,  I  mean?  * 

"  Yes." 

He  put  her  hands   firmly   from  his  knee. 

"  Then  you  must  marry  him,  if  matters  can  be  arranged. 
It  is  what  I  should  wish.  But  I  do  not  know " 

"  Father,  you  do  not  understand — you  do  not  under- 
stand. I  tell  you  I  am  willing  enough,  if  he  wishes 
it  ...  if  he  wishes  it." 

Again  she  seized  his  hands  and  held  them.  And  again 
bewilderment  came  down  on  him  like  a  cloud. 

"  Father !  you  must  trust  me.  I  am  willing  to  do  every- 
thing that  I  ought."  (She  was  speaking  firmly  and  confi- 
dently now.)  "  If  he  wishes  to  marry  me,  I  will  marry 
him.  I  love  him  dearly.  .  .  .  But  you  must  say  nothing 
to  him,  not  one  word.  My  mother  agrees  with  this.  She 
would  have  told  you  herself;  but  I  said  that  I  would — that 
I  must  be  brave.  ...  I  must  learn  to  be  brave.  ...  I  can 
tell  you  no  more." 

He  lifted  her  hands  and  stood  up. 

"  I  see  that  I  understand  nothing  that  you  say  after  all," 
he  said  with  a  fine  fatherly  dignity.  "  I  must  talk  with 
your  mother." 

II 

He  found  his  wife  half  an  hour  later  in  the  ladies'  par- 
lour, which  he  entered  with  an  air  as  of  nothing  to  say. 
With  the  same  air  of  disengagement  he  made  sure  that 
Marjorie  was  nowhere  in  the  room,  and  presently  sat 
down. 

Mrs.  Manners  was  well  past  her  prime.  She  was  over 
forty  years  old  and  looked  over  fifty,  though  she  retained 
the  air  of  distinction  which  Marjorie  had  derived  from 
her;  but  her  looks  belied  her,  and  she  had  not  one  tithe  of 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  75 

the  subtlety  and  keenness  of  her  daughter.  She  was,  in 
fact,  more  suited  to  be  wife  to  her  husband  than  mother 
to  her  daughter. 

"  You  have  come  about  the  maid,"  she  said  instantly, 
with  disconcerting  penetration  and  frankness.  "  Well,  I 
know  no  more  than  you.  She  will  tell  me  nothing  but 
what  she  has  told  you.  She  has  some  fiddle-faddle  in  her 
head,  as  maids  will,  but  she  will  have  her  way  with  us,  I 
suppose." 

She  drew  her  needle  through  the  piece  of  embroidery 
which  she  permitted  to  herself  for  an  hour  on  Sundays, 
knotted  the  thread  and  bit  it  off.  Then  she  regarded  her 
husband. 

"  I  ...  I  will  have  no  fiddle-faddle  in  such  a  matter," 
he  said  courageously.  "  Maids  did  not  rule  their  parents 
when  I  was  a  boy;  they  obeyed  them  or  were  beaten." 

His  wife  laughed  shortly;  and  began  to  thread  her 
needle  again. 

He  began  to  explain.  The  match  was  in  all  respects 
suitable.  Certainly  there  were  difficulties,  springing  from 
the  very  startling  events  at  Matstead,  and  it  well  might  be 
that  a  man  who  would  do  as  Mr.  Audrey  had  done  (or, 
rather,  proposed  to  do)  might  show  obstinacy  in  other 
directions  too.  Therefore  there  was  no  hurry;  the  two  were 
still  very  young,  and  it  certainly  would  be  wiser  to  wait  for 
any  formal  betrothal  until  Robin's  future  disclosed  itself. 
But  no  action  of  Mr.  Audrey's  need  delay  the  betrothal 
Indefinitely;  if  need  were,  he,  Mr.  Manners,  would  make 
proper  settlements.  Marjorie  was  an  only  daughter;  in 
fact,  she  was  in  some  sort  an  heiress.  The  Manor  would 
be  sufficient  for  them  both.  As  to  any  other  difficulties — 
any  of  the  maidenly  fiddle-faddle  of  which  his  wife 
had  spoken— this  should  not  stand  in  the  way  for  an 
instant. 


76  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

His  wife  laughed  again  in  the  same  exclamatory  man- 
ner, when  he  had  done  and  sat  stroking  his  knees. 

"  Why,  you  understand  nothing  about  it,  Mr.  Manners," 
she  said.  "Did  the  maid  not  tell  you  she  would  marry 
him,  if  he  wished  it?  She  told  me  so." 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  know  no  more  than  you." 

"  Does  he  not  wish  it?  " 

"  She  says  so." 

"  Then " 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  say.  And  yet  that  says  nothing. 
There  is  something  more." 

"  Ask  her." 

"  I  have  asked  her.  She  bids  me  wait,  as  she  bids  you. 
It  is  no  good,  Mr.  Manners.  We  must  wait  the  maid's 
time." 

He  sat,  breathing  audibly  through  his  nose. 

These  two  were  devoted  to  their  daughter  in  a  manner 
hardly  to  be  describe'd.  She  was  the  only  one  left  to  them ; 
for  the  others,  of  whom  two  had  been  boys,  had  died  in  in- 
fancy or  childhood;  and,  in  the  event,  Marjorie  had  ab- 
sorbed the  love  due  to  them  all.  She  was  a  strain  higher 
than  themselves,  thought  her  parents,  and  so  pride  in  her 
was  added  to  love.  The  mother  had  made  incredible  sacri- 
fices, first  to  have  her  educated  by  a  couple  of  old  nuns 
who  still  survived  in  Derby,  and  then  to  bring  her  out 
suitably  at  Babington  House  last  year.  The  father  had 
cordially  approved,  and  joined  in  the  sacrifices,  which  in- 
cluded an  expenditure  which  he  would  not  have  thought 
conceivable.  The  result  was,  of  course,  that  Marjorie, 
under  cover  of  a  very  real  dutifulness,  ruled  both  her 
parents  completely;  her  mother  acknowledged  the  domin- 
ion, at  least,  to  herself  and  her  husband;  her  father  pre- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  77 

tended  that  he  did  not;  and  on  this  occasion  rose,  perhaps, 
nearer  to  repudiating  it  than  ever  in  his  life.  It  seemed 
to  him  unbearable  to  be  bidden  by  his  daughter,  though 
with  the  utmost  courtesy  and  affection,  to  mind  his  own 
business. 

So  he  sat  and  breathed  audibly  through  his  nose,  and 
meditated  rebellion. 

"  And  is  the  lad  to  come  here  for  Easter?  "  he  asked  at 
last. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  And  for  how  long  ?  " 

"  So  long  as  the  maid  appoints." 

He  breathed  louder  than  ever. 

"  And,  Mr.  Manners,"  continued  his  wife  emphatically, 
"  no  word  must  be  said  to  him  on  the  matter.  The  maid  is 
very  plain  as  to  that.  .  .  .  Oh!  we  must  let  her  have  her 
way." 

"  Where  is  she  gone?  " 

She  nodded  with  her  head  to  the  window.  He  went  to 
it  and  looked  out. 

It  was  the  little  walled  garden  on  which  he  looked,  in 
which,  if  he  had  but  known  it,  the  lad  whom  he  liked  had 
kissed  the  maid  whom  he  loved ;  and  there  walked  the  maid, 
at  this  moment  with  her  back  to  him,  going  up  the  central 
path  that  was  bordered  with  box.  The  February  sun  shone 
on  her  as  she  went,  on  her  hooded  head,  her  dark  cloak 
and  her  blue  dress  beneath.  He  watched  her  go  up,  and 
drew  back  a  little  as  she  turned,  so  that  she  might  not  see 
him  watching;  and  as  she  came  down  again  he  saw  that  she 
held  a  string  of  beads  in  her  fingers  and  was  making  her 
devotions.  She  was  a  good  girl.  .  .  .  That,  at  least,  was  a 
satisfaction. 


78  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Then  he  turned  from  the  window  again. 

"Well?"  said  his  wife. 

"  I  suppose  it  must  be  as  she  says." 

Ill 

It  was  an  hour  before  sunset  when  Marjorie  came  out 
again  into  the  walled  garden  that  had  become  for  her  now 
a  kind  of  sanctuary,  and  in  her  hand  she  carried  a  letter, 
sealed  and  inscribed.  On  the  outside  the  following  words 
were  written: 

"  To  Mr.  Robin  Audrey.     At  Matstead. 
"  Haste,  haste,  haste." 

Within,  the  sheet  was  covered  from  top  to  bottom  with 
the  neat  convent-hand  she  had  learnt  from  the  nuns.  The 
most  of  it  does  not  concern  us.  It  began  with  such  words 
as  you  would  expect  from  a  maid  to  her  lover;  it  continued 
to  inform  him  that  her  parents  were  willing,  and,  indeed, 
desirous,  that  he  should  come  to  them  for  Easter,  and  that 
her  father  would  write  a  formal  letter  later  to  invite  him; 
it  was  to  be  written  from  Derby,  (this  conspirator  informed 
the  other),  that  it  might  cause  less  comment  when  Mr. 
Audrey  saw  it,  and  was  to  be  expressed  in  terms  that  would 
satisfy  him.  Finally,  it  closed  as  it  had  begun,  and  was 
subscribed  by  his  "  loving  friend,  M.  M."  One  paragraph, 
however,  is  worth  attention. 

"  I  have  told  my  father  and  mother,  that  we  love  one 
another,  my  Robin;  and  that  you  have  asked  me  to  marry 
you,  and  that  I  have  consented  should  you  wish  to  do  so 
when  the  time  comes.  They  have  consented  most  willingly  ; 
and  so  Jesu  have  you  in  His  keeping,  and  guide  your  mind 
aright." 


COME  HACK!     COME  ROPE!  79 

It  was  this  paragraph  that  had  cost  her  half  of  the  hour 
occupied  in  writing;  for  it  must  be  expressed  just  so  and 
no  otherwise;  and  its  wording  had  cost  her  agony  lest  on 
the  one  side  she  should  tell  him  too  much,  and,  on  the  other, 
too  little.  And  her  agony  was  not  yet  over;  for  she  had 
to  face  its  sending,  and  the  thought  of  all  that  it  might 
cost  her.  She  was  to  give  it  to  one  of  the  men  who  was  to 
leave  early  for  Derby  next  morning  and  was  to  deliver  it 
at  Matstead  on  the  road;  so  she  brought  it  out  now  to 
her  sanctuary  to  spread  it,  like  the  old  King  of  Israel, 
before  the  Lord.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  promise  of  frost  in  the  air  to-night.  Under- 
foot the  moisture  of  the  path  was  beginning,  not  yet  to 
stiffen,  but  rather  to  withdraw  itself;  and  there  was  a  cold 
clearness  in  the  air.  Over  the  wall  beside  the  house,  beyond 
the  leafless  trees  which  barred  it  like  prison-bars,  burned 
the  sunset,  deepening  and  glowing  redder  every  instant. 
Yet  she  felt  nothing  of  the  cold,  for  a  fire  was  within  her  as 
she  went  again  up  and  down  the  path  on  which  her  father 
had  watched  her  walk — a  fire  of  which  as  yet  she  could  not 
discern  the  fuel.  The  love  of  Robin  was  there — that  she 
knew;  and  the  love  of  Christ  was  there — so  she  thought; 
and  yet  where  the  divine  and  the  human  passion  mingled, 
she  could  not  tell;  nor  whether,  indeed,  for  certain,  it  were 
the  love  of  Christ  at  all,  and  not  a  vain  imagination  of  her 
own  as  to  how  Christ,  in  this  case,  would  be  loved.  Only 
she  knew  that  across  her  love  for  Robin  a  shadow  had 
fallen;  she  could  scarcely  tell  when  it  had  first  come  to 
her,  and  whence.  Yet  it  had  so  come;  it  had  deepened 
rapidly  and  strongly  during  the  mass  that  Mr.  Simpson 
had  said,  and,  behold !  in  its  very  darkness  there  was 
light.  And  so  it  had  continued  till  confusion  had  fallen 
on  her  which  none  but  Robin  could  dissolve.  It  must  be 


80  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

his  word  finally  that  must  give  her  the  answer  to  her 
doubts;  and  she  must  make  it  easy  for  him  to  give  it. 
He  must  know,  that  is,  that  she  loved  him  more  passion- 
ately than  ever,  that  her  heart  would  break  if  she  had  not 
her  desire;  and  yet  that  she  would  not  hold  him  back  if  a 
love  that  was  greater  than  hers  could  be  for  him  or  his 
for  her,  called  him  to  another  wedding  than  that  of  which 
either  had  yet  spoken.  A  broken  heart  and  God's  will 
done  would  be  better  than  that  God's  will  should  be 
avoided  and  her  own  satisfied. 

It  was  this  kind  of  considerations,  therefore,  that  sent 
her  swiftly  to  and  fro,  up  and  down  the  path  under  the 
darkening  sky — if  they  can  be  called  considerations  which 
beat  on  the  mind  like  a  clamour  of  shouting;  and,  as  she 
went,  she  strove  to  offer  all  to  God:  she  entreated  Him  to 
do  His  will,  yet  not  to  break  her  heart;  to  break  her  heart, 
yet  not  Robin's;  to  break  both  her  heart  and  Robin's,  if 
that  Will  could  not  otherwise  be  served. 

Her  lips  moved  now  and  again  as  she  went;  but  her 
eyes  were  downcast  and  her  face  untroubled.  .  .  . 

As  the  bell  in  the  court  rang  for  supper  she  went  to  the 
door  and  looked  through.  The  man  was  just  saddling  up 
in  the  stable-door  opposite. 

"  Jack,"  she  called,  "  here  is  the  letter.    Taka  il  safely." 

Then  she  went  in  to  supper. 


CHAPTER  VI 


IT  was  a  great  day  and  a  solemn  when  the  squire  of  Mat- 
stead  went  to  Protestant  communion  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  Easter  Day,  too,  but  this  was  less  in  the  considera- 
tion of  the  village.  There  was  first  the  minister,  Mr.  Bar- 
ton, in  a  condition  of  excited  geniality  from  an  early  hour. 
He  was  observed  soon  after  it  was  light,  by  an  old  man 
who  was  up  betimes,  hurrying  up  the  village  street  in  his 
minister's  cassock  and  gown,  presumably  on  his  way  to  see 
that  all  preparations  were  complete  for  the  solemnity. 
His  wife  was  seen  to  follow  him  a  few  minutes  later. 

By  eight  o'clock  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  were 
assembled  at  points  of  vantage;  some  openly  at  their  doors; 
others  at  the  windows;  and  groups  from  the  more  distant 
farms,  decked  suitably,  stood  at  all  corners;  to  be  greeted 
presently  by  their  minister  hurrying  back  once  more  from 
the  church  to  bring  the  communion  vessels  and  the  bread 
and  wine.  The  four  or  five  soldiers  of  the  village — a  couple 
of  billmen  and  pikemen  and  a  real  gunner — stood  apart  in 
an  official  group,  but  did  not  salute  him.  He  did  not  speak 
of  that  which  was  in  the  minds  of  all,  but  he  waved  a  hand 
to  this  man,  bid  a  happy  Easter  to  another,  and  disap- 
peared within  his  lodgings  leaving  a  wake  of  excitement 
behind  him. 

By  a  quarter  before  nine  the  three  bells  had  begun  to 
jangle  from  the  tower;  and  the  crowd  had  increased  largely, 
when  Mr.  Barton  once  more  passed  to  the  church  in  the 
spring  sunshine,  followed  by  the  more  devout  who  wished 
to  pray,  and  the  more  timid  who  feared  a  disturbance.  For 

81 


82  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

sentiments  were  not  wholly  on  the  squire's  side.  There  was 
fh-of.  number  of  Catholics,  openly  confessed  or  at  least 
secretly  Catholic,  though  these  were  not  in  full  force  since 
most  were  gone  to  Padley  before  dawn;  and  there  was  next 
a  certain  sentiment  abroad,  even  amongst  those  who  con- 
formed, in  favour  of  tradition.  That  the  squire  of  Matstead 
should  be  a  Catholic  was  at  least  as  fundamental  an  article 
of  faith  as  that  the  minister  should  be  a  Protestant.  There 
was  little  or  no  hot-gospel  here ;  men  still  shook  their  heads 
sympathetically  over  the  old  days  and  the  old  faith,  which 
indeed  had  ceased  to  be  the  faith  of  all  scarcely  twenty 
years  ago;  and  it  appeared  to  the  most  of  them  that  the 
proper  faith  of  the  Quality,  since  they  had  before  their 
eyes  such  families  as  the  Babingtons,  the  Fentons,  and 
the  FitzHerberts,  was  that  to  which  their  own  squire 
was  about  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  known,  too,  publicly 
by  now,  that  Mr.  Robin  was  gone  away  for  Easter,  since 
he  would  not  follow  his  father.  So  the  crowd  waited; 
the  dogs  sunned  themselves;  and  the  gunner  sat  on  a  wall. 

The  bells  ceased  at  nine  o'clock,  and  upon  the  moment,  a 
group  came  round  the  churchyard  wall,  down  from  the 
field-path  and  the  stile  that  led  to  the  manor. 

First,  walking  alone,  came  the  squire,  swiftly  and  steadily. 
His  face  was  flushed  a  little,  but  set  and  determined.  He 
was  in  his  fine  clothes,  ruff  and  all;  his  rapier  was  looped 
at  his  side,  and  he  carried  a  stick.  Behind  him  came  three 
or  four  farm  servants;  then  a  yeoman  and  his  wife;  and 
last,  at  a  little  distance,  three  or  four  onlookers. 

There  was  dead  silence  as  he  came;  the  hum  of  talk 
died  at  the  corners;  the  bells'  clamour  had  even  now  ceased. 
It  seemed  as  if  each  man  waited  for  his  neighbour  to  speak. 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  squire's  brisk  footsteps 
on  the  few  yards  of  cobbles  that  paved  the  walk  up  to  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  83 

lych-gate.     At  the  door  of  the  church,  seen  beyond  him, 
was  a  crowd  of  faces. 

Then  a  man  called  something  aloud  from  fifty  yards 
away;  but  there  was  no  voice  to  echo  him.  The  folk  just 
watched  their  lord  go  by,  staring  on  him  as  on  some  strange 
sight,  forgetting  even  to  salute  him.  And  so  in  silence  he 
passed  on. 

II 

Within,  the  church  murmured  with  low  talking.  Already 
two-thirds  of  it  was  full,  and  all  faces  turned  and  re-turned 
to  the  door  at  every  footstep  or  sound.  As  the  bells  ceased 
a  sigh  went  up,  as  if  a  giant  drew  breath ;  then,  once  again, 
the  murmuring  began. 

The  church  was  as  most  were  in  those  days.  It  was  but 
a  little  place,  yet  it  had  had  in  old  days  great  treasures  of 
beauty.  There  had  been,  until  some  ten  or  twelve  years 
ago,  a  carved  screen  that  ran  across  the  chancel  arch,  with 
the  Rood  upon  it,  and  St.  Mary  and  St.  John  on  this  side 
and  that.  The  high-altar,  it  was  remembered,  had  been  of 
stone  throughout,  surrounded  with  curtains'  on  the  three 
sides,  hanging  between  posts  that  had  each  a  carven  angel, 
all  gilt.  Now  all  was  gone,  excepting  only  the  painted 
windows  (since  glass  was  costly).  The  chancel  was  as  bare 
as  a  barn ;  beneath  the  whitewash,  high  over  the  place 
where  the  old  canopy  had  hung,  pale  colours  still  glim- 
mered through  where,  twelve  years  ago,  Christ  had  sat 
crowning  His  Mother.  The  altar  was  gone;  its  holy  slab 
served  now  as  the  pavement  within  the  west  door,  where 
the  superstitious  took  pains  to  step  clear  of  it.  The  screen 
was  gone;  part  lay  beneath  the  tower;  part  had  been 
burned;  Christ's  Cross  held  up  the  roof  of  the  shed  where 
the  minister  kept  his  horse;  the  three  figures  had  been 
tarted  off  to  Derby  to  help  swell  the  Protestant  bonfire. 


84,       COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

The  projecting  stoup  to  the  right  of  the  main  door  had  been 
broken  half  off.  ...  In  place  of  these  glories  there  stood 
now,  in  the  body  of  the  church,  before  the  chancel-steps, 
a  great  table,  such  as  the  rubrics  of  the  new  Prayer-Book 
required,  spread  with  a  white  cloth,  upon  which  now  rested 
two  tall  pewter  flagons  of  wine,  a  flat  pewter  plate  as 
great  as  a  small  dish,  and  two  silver  communion-cups — all 
new.  And  to  one  side  of  this,  in  a  new  wainscoted  desk, 
waited  worthy  Mr.  Barton  for  the  coming  of  his  squire — 
a  happy  man  that  day;  his  face  beamed  in  the  spring 
sunlight;  he  had  on  his  silk  gown,  and  he  eyed,  openly, 
the  door  through  which  his  new  patron  was  to  come. 

Then,  without  sound  or  warning,  except  for  the  footsteps 
on  the  paving-stones  and  the  sudden  darkening  of  the  sun- 
shine on  the  floor,  there  came  the  figure  for  which  all 
looked.  As  he  entered  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  head,  but 
dropped  it  again;  and  passed  on,  sturdy,  and  (you  would 
have  said)  honest  and  resolute  too,  to  his  seat  behind  the 
reading-desk.  He  was  met  by  silence;  he  was  escorted  by 
silence;  and  in  silence  he  sat  down. 

Then  the  waiting  crowd  surged  in,  poured  this  way  and 
that,  and  flowed  into  the  benches.  And  Mr.  Barton's  voice 
was  raised  in  holy  exhortation. 

"  At  what  time  soever  a  sinner  doth  repent  him  of  his 
sin  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  I  will  put  all  his  wicked- 
ness out  of  remembrance,  saith  the  Lord." 


Ill 

Those  who  could  best  observe  (for  the  tale  was  handed 
on  with  the  careful  accuracy  of  those  who  cannot  read  or 
write)  professed  themselves  amazed  at  the  assured  ease  of 
the  squire.  No  sound  came  from  the  seat  half-hidden  be- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  85 

hind  the  reading-desk  where  he  sat  alone;  and,  during  the 
prayers'  when  he  stood  or  kneeled,  he  moved  as  if  he  under- 
stood well  enough  what  he  was  at.  A  great  bound  Prayer- 
Book,  it  was  known,  rested  before  him  on  the  book-board, 
and  he  was  observed  to  turn  the  pages  more  than  once. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  heavy  task  that  Mr.  Barton  had  to  do. 
For  first  there  was  the  morning  prayer,  with  its  psalms, 
its  lessons  and  its  prayers1;  next  the  Litany,  and  last  the 
communion,  in  the  course  of  which  was  delivered  one  of 
the  homilies  set  forth  by  authority,  especially  designed 
for  the  support  of  those  who  were  no  preachers — pre- 
ceded and  followed  by  a  psalm.  But  all  was  easy  to-day 
to  a  man  who  had  such  cause  for  exultation;  his  voice 
boomed  heartily  out;  his  face  radiated  his  pleasure;  and 
he  delivered  his  homily  when  the  time  came,  with  excellent 
emphasis  and  power — all  from  the  reading-desk,  except 
the  communion. 

Yet  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  the  attention  of  those 
that  heard  him  was  where  their  pastor  would  have  desired 
it  to  be;  since  even  to  these  country-folk  the  drama  of  the 
whole  was  evident.  There,  seen  full  when  he  sat  down, 
and  in  part  when  he  kneeled  and  stood,  was  the  man  who 
hitherto  had  stood  to  them  for  the  old  order,  the  old  faith, 
the  old  tradition — the  man  whose  horse's  footsteps  had 
been  heard,  times  and  again,  before  dawn,  in  the  village 
street,  bearing  him  to  the  mystery  of  the  mass;  through 
whose  gate  strangers  had  ridden,  perhaps  three  or  four 
times  in  the  year,  to  find  harbourage — strangers  dressed  in- 
deed as  plain  gentlemen  or  yeomen,  yet  known,  every  one  of 
them,  to  be  under  her  Grace's  ban,  and  to  ride  in  peril 
of  liberty  if  not  of  life. 

Yet  here  he  sat — a  man  feared  and  even  loved  by  some — 
the  first  of  his  line  to  yield  to  circumstance,  and  to  make 


86  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

peace  with  his  times.  Not  a  man  of  all  who  looked  on  him 
believed  him  certainly  to  be  that  which  his  actions  professed 
him  to  be;  some  doubted,  especially  those  who  themselves 
inclined  to  the  old  ways  or  secretly  followed  them;  and 
the  hearts  of  these  grew  sick  as  they  watched. 
But  the  crown  and  climax  was  yet  to  come. 

The  minister  finished  at  last  the  homily — it  was  one 
which  inveighed  more  than  once  against  the  popish  super- 
stitions; and  he  had  chosen  it  for  that  reason,  to  clench 
the  bargain,  so  to  say — all  in  due  order ;  for  he  was  a  care- 
ful man  and  observed  his  instructions,  unlike  some  of  his 
brethren  who  did  as  they  pleased;  and  came  back  again 
to  the  long  north  side  of  the  linen-covered  table  to  finish 
the  service. 

He  had  no  man  to  help  him ;  so  he  was  forced  to  do  it  all 
for  himself;  so  he  went  forward  gallantly,  first  reading  a 
set  of  Scripture  sentences  while  the  officers  collected  first 
for  the  poor-box,  and  then,  as  it  was  one  of  the  offering- 
days,  collected  again  the  dues  for  the  curate.  It  was 
largely  upon  these,  in  such  poor  parishes  as  was  this,  that 
the  minister  depended  and  his  wife. 

Then  he  went  on  to  pray  for  the  whole  estate  of  Christ's 
Church  militant  here  on  earth,  especially  for  God's  "  serv- 
ant, Elizabeth  our  Queen,  that  under  her  we  may  be  godly 
and  quietly  governed" ;  then  came  the  exhortation,  urging 
any  who  might  think  himself  to  be  "  a  blasphemer  of  God, 
an  hinderer  or  slanderer  of  His  Word  ...  or  to  be  in 
malice  or  envy,"  to  bewail  his  sins,  and  "  not  to  come  to 
this  holy  table,  lest  after  the  taking  of  that  holy  sacra- 
ment, the  devil  enter  into  him,  as  he  entered  into  Judas, 
and  fill  him  full  of  all  iniquities." 

So  forward  with  the  rest.  He  read  the  Comfortable 
Words;  the  English  equivalent  for  Sursum  Corda  with  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  87 

Easter  Preface;  then  another  prayer;  and  finally  rehearsed 
the  story  of  the  Institution  of  the  Most  Holy  Sacrament, 
though  without  any  blessing  of  the  bread  and  wine,  at 
least  by  any  action,  since  none  such  was  ordered  in  the 
new  Prayer-Book.  Then  he  immediately  received  the 
bread  and  wine  himself,  and  stood  up  again,  holding  the 
silver  plate  in  his  hand  for  an  instant,  before  proceeding 
to  the  squire's  seat  to  give  him  the  communion.  Mean- 
time, so  great  was  the  expectation  and  interest  that  it  was 
not  until  the  minister  had  moved  from  the  table  that  the 
first  communicants  began  to  come  up  to  the  two  white- 
hung  benches,  left  empty  till  now,  next  to  the  table. 

Then  those  who  still  watched,  and  who  spread  the  tale 
about  afterwards,  saw  that  the  squire  did  not  move  from  his 
seat  to  kneel  down.  He  had  put  off  his  hat  again  after 
the  homily,  and  had  so  sat  ever  since;  and  now  that  the 
minister  came  to  him,  still  there  he  sat. 

Now  such  a  manner  of  receiving  was  not  unknown;  yet 
it  was  the  sign  of  a  Puritan;  and,  so  far  from  the  folk 
expecting  such  behaviour  in  their  squire,  they  had  looked 
rather  for  Popish  gestures,  knockings  on  the  breast,  signs' 
of  the  cross. 

For  a  moment  the  minister  stood  before  the  seat,  as  if 
doubtful  what  to  do.  He  held  the  plate  in  his  left  hand 
and  a  fragment  of  bread  in  his  fingers.  Then,  as  he  began 
the  words  he  had  to  say,  one  thing  at  least  the  people  saw, 
and  that  was  that  a  great  flush  dyed  the  old  man's  face, 
though  he  sat  quiet.  Then,  as  the  minister  held  out  the 
bread,  the  squire  seemed  to  recover  himself;  he  put  out 
his  fingers  quickly,  took  the  bread  sharply  and  put  it  into 
his  mouth;  and  so  sat  again,  until  the  minister  brought 
the  cup;  and  this,  too,  he  drank  of  quickly,  and  gave  it 
back. 


88  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Then,  as  the  communicants,  one  by  one,  took  the  bread 
and  wine  and  went  back  to  their  seats,  man  after  man 
glanced  up  at  the  squire. 

But  the  squire  sat  there,  motionless  and  upright,  like  a 
figure  cut  of  stone. 

IV 

The  court  of  the  manor  seemed  deserted  half  an  hour 
before  dinner-time.  There  was  a  Sabbath  stillness  in  the 
air  to-day,  sweetened,  as  it  were,  by  the  bubbling  of  bird- 
music  in  the  pleasaunce  behind  the  hall  and  the  high 
woods  beyond.  On  the  strips  of  rough  turf  before  the 
gate  and  within  it  bloomed  the  spring  flowers,  white  and 
blue.  A  hound  lay  stretched  in  the  sunshine  on  the  hall 
steps,  twitching  his  ears  to  keep  off  a  persistent  fly.  You 
would  have  sworn  that  his  was  the  only  intelligence  in  the 
place.  Yet  at  the  sound  of  the  iron  latch  of  the  gate  and 
the  squire's  footsteps  on  the  stones,  the  place,  so  to  say, 
became  alive,  though  in  a  furtive  and  secret  manner.  Over 
the  half  door  of  the  stable  entrance  on  the  left  two  faces 
appeared — one,  which  was  Dick's,  sullen  and  angry,  the 
other,  that  of  a  stable-boy,  inquiring  and  frankly  inter- 
ested. This  second  vanished  again  as  the  squire  came  for- 
ward. A  figure  of  a  kitchen-boy,  in  a  white  apron,  showed 
in  the  dark  doorway  that  led  to  the  kitchen  and  hall,  and 
disappeared  again  instantly.  From  two  or  three  upper 
windows  faces  peeped  and  remained  fascinated.  Only  the 
old  hound  remained  still,  twitching  his  ears. 

All  this — though  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the 
familiar  personage  of  the  place,  in  his  hat  and  cloak  and 
sword,  walking  through  his  own  court  on  his  way  to  dinner, 
as  he  had  walked  a  thousand  times  before.  And  yet  so 
great  was  the  significance  of  his  coming  to-day  that  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  89 

very  gate  behind  him  was  pushed  open  by  sightseers,  who 
had  followed  at  a  safe  distance  up  the  path  from  the 
church;  half  a  dozen  stood  there  staring,  and  behind  them, 
at  intervals,  a  score  more,  spread  out  in  groups,  all  the 
way  down  to  the  porter's  lodge. 

The  most  remarkable  feature  of  all  was  the  silence. 
Not  a  voice  there  spoke,  even  in  a  whisper.  The  maids  at 
the  windows  above,  Dick  glowering  over  the  half  door,  the 
little  group  which,  far  back  in  the  kitchen  entrance,  peeped 
and  rustled,  the  men  at  the  gate  behind,  even  the  boys  in 
the  path — all  these  held  their  tongues  for  interest  and  a 
kind  of  fear.  Drama  was  in  the  air — the  tragedy  of  seeing 
the  squire  come  back  from  church  for  the  first  time,  bear- 
ing himself  as  he  always  did,  resolute  and  sturdy,  yet 
changed  in  his  significance  after  a  fashion  of  which  none 
of  these  simple  hearts  had  ever  dreamed. 

So,  again  in  silence,  he  went  up  the  court,  knowing  that 
eyes  were  upon  him,  yet  showing  no  sign  that  he  knew  it; 
he  went  up  the  steps  with  the  same  assured  air,  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  hall. 

Then  the  spell  broke  up  and  the  bustle  began,  for  it  was 
only  half  an  hour  to  dinner  and  guests  were  coming. 

First  Dick  came  out,  slashing  to  the  door  behind  him, 
and  strode  out  to  the  gate.  He  was  still  in  his  boots,  for 
he  had  ridden  to  Padley  and  back  since  early  morning 
with  a  couple  of  the  maids  and  the  stable-boy.  He  went 
to  the  gate  of  the  court,  the  group  dissolving  as  he  came, 
and  shut  it  in  their  faces.  A  noise  of  talking  came  out  of 
the  kitchen  windows  and  the  clash  of  a  saucepan:  the 
maids1'  heads  vanished  from  the  upper  windows. 

Even  as  Dick  shut  the  gate  he  heard  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  down  by  the  porter's  lodge.  The  justices  were  com- 
ing— the  two  whose  names  he  had  heard  with  amazement 


90  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

last  week,  as  the  last  corroboration  of  the  incredible  rumour 
of  his  master's  defection.  For  these  were  a  couple  of 
magistrates — harmless  men,  indeed,  as  regarded  their  hos- 
tility to  the  old  Faith — yet  Protestants  who  had  sat  more 
than  once  on  the  bench  in  Derby  to  hear  cases  of  recusancy. 
Old  Mrs.  Marpleden  had  told  him  they  were  to  come,  and 
that  provision  must  be  made  for  their  horses — Mrs.  Marple- 
den, the  ancient  housekeeper  of  the  manor,  who  had  gone 
to  school  for  a  while  with  the  Benedictine  nuns  of  Derby 
in  King  Henry's  days.  She  had  shaken  her  head  and  eyed 
him,  and  then  had  suffered  three  or  four  tears  to  fall  down 
her  old  cheeks. 

Well,  they  were  coming,  so  Dick  must  open  the  gate 
again,  and  pull  the  bell  for  the  servants;  and  this  he  did, 
and  waited,  hat  in  hand. 

Up  the  little  straight  road  they  came,  with  a  servant 
or  two  behind  them — the  two  harmless  gentlemen,  chat- 
tering as  they  rode;  and  Dick  loathed  them  in  his  heart. 

"  The  squire  is  within?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

They  dismounted,  and  Dick  held  their  stirrups. 

"He  has  been  to  church — eh?" 

Dick  made  no  answer.  He  feigned  to  be  busy  with  one 
of  the  saddles. 

The  magistrate  glanced  at  him  sharply. 


It  was  a  strange  dinner  that  day. 

Outwardly,  again,  all  was  as  usual — as  it  might  have 
been  on  any  other  Sunday  in  spring.  The  three  gentlemen 
sat  at  the  high  table,  facing  down  the  hall;  and,  since 
there  was  no  reading,  and  since  it  was  a  festival,  there 
was  no  lack  of  conversation.  The  servants  came  in  as 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  pi 

usual  with  the  dishes — there  was  roast  lamb  to-day,  ac- 
cording to  old  usage,  among  the  rest;  and  three  or  four 
wines.  A  little  fire  burned  against  the  reredos,  for  cheer- 
fulness rather  than  warmth,  and  the  spring  sunshine 
flowed  in  through  the  clear-glass  windows,  bright  and 
genial. 

Yet  the  difference  was  profound.  Certainly  there  was 
no  talk,  overheard  at  least  by  the  servants,  which  might 
not  have  been  on  any  Sunday  for  the  last  twenty  years: 
the  congratulations  and  good  wishes,  or  whatever  they 
were,  must  have  been  spoken  between  the  three  in  the 
parlour  before  dinner;  and  they  spoke  now  of  harmless 
usual  things — news  of  the  countryside  and  tales  from 
Derby;  gossip  of  affairs  of  State;  of  her  Grace,  who,  in  a 
manner  unthinkable,  even  by  now  do  ainated  the  imagina- 
tion of  England.  None  of  these  three  had  ever  seen  her; 
the  squire  had  been  to  London  but  once  in  his  life,  his  two 
guests  never.  Yet  they  talked  of  her,  of  her  state-craft, 
of  her  romanticism;  they  told  little  tales,  one  to  the  other, 
as  if  she  lived  in  the  county  town.  All  this,  then,  was 
harmless  enough.  Religion  was  not  mentioned  in  the 
hearing  of  the  servants,  neither  the  old  nor  the  new;  they 
talked,  all  three  of  them,  and  the  squire  loudest  of  all, 
though  with  pauses  of  pregnant  silence,  of  such  things 
as  children  might  have  heard  without  dismay. 

Yet  to  the  servants  who  came  and  went,  it  was  as  if 
their  master  were  another  man  altogether,  and  his  hall 
some  unknown  place.  There  was  no  blessing  of  himself  be- 
fore meat;  he  said  something,  indeed,  before  he  sat  down, 
but  it  was  unintelligible,  and  he  made  no  movement  with 
his  hand.  But  it  was  deeper  than  this  .  .  .  and  his  men 
who  had  served  him  for  ten  or  fifteen  years  looked  on  him 
as  upon  a  stranger  or  a  changeling. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   same   Easter   Day   at   Padley    was   another   matter 
altogether. 

As  early  as  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  house  was 
astir:  lights  glimmered  in  upper  rooms;  footsteps  passed 
along  corridors  and  across  the  court;  parties  began  to 
arrive.  All  was  done  without  ostentation,  yet  without  con- 
cealment, for  Padley  was  a  solitary  place,  and  had  no 
fear,  at  this  time,  of  a  sudden  descent  of  the  authorities. 
For  form's  sake — scarcely  for  more — a  man  kept  watch 
over  the  valley  road,  and  signalled  by  the  flashing  of  a 
lamp  twice  every  party  with  which  he  was  acquainted,  and 
there  were  no  others  than  these  to  signal.  A  second  man 
waited  by  the  gate  into  the  court  to  admit  them.  They  rode 
and  walked  in  from  all  round — great  gentlemen,  such  as 
the  North  Lees  family,  came  with  a  small  retinue;  a  few 
came  alone;  yeomen  and  farm  servants,  with  their  women- 
folk, from  the  Hathersage  valley,  came  for  the  most  part 
on  foot.  Altogether  perhaps  a  hundred  and  twenty  per- 
sons were  within  Padley  Manor — and  the  gate  secured — 
by  six  o'clock. 

Meanwhile,  within,  the  priest  had  been  busy  since  half- 
past  four  with  the  hearing  of  confessions.  He  sat  in  the 
chapel  beside  the  undecked  altar,  and  they  came  to  him 
one  by  one.  The  household  and  a  few  of  the  nearer  neigh- 
bours had  done  their  duty  in  this  matter  the  day  before, 
and  a  good  number  had  already  made  their  Easter  duties 
earlier  in  Lent;  so  by  six  o'clock  all  was  finished. 

Then  began  the  bustle. 

92 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  93 

A  group  of  ladies,  FitzHerberts  and  Fentons,  entered,  so 
soon  as  the  priest  gave  the  signal  by  tapping  on  the  parlour 
wall,  bearing  all  things  necessary  for  the  altar;  and  it  was 
astonishing  what  fine  things  these  were;  so  that  by  the 
time  that  the  priest  was  ready  to  vest,  the  place  was  trans- 
formed. Stuffs  and  embroideries  hung  upon  the  wall  about 
the  altar,  making  it  seem,  indeed,  a  sanctuary;  two  talj 
silver  candlesticks,  used  for  no  other  purpose,  stood  upon 
the  linen  cloths,  under  which  rested  the  slate  altar-stone, 
taken,  with  the  sacred  vessels  and  the  vestments,  from  one 
of  the  privy  hiding-holes,  with  whose  secret  not  a  living 
being  without  the  house,  and  not  more  than  two  or  three 
within,  was  acquainted.  It  was  rumored  that  half  a  dozen 
such  places  had  been  contrived  within  the  precincts',  two 
of  which  were  great  enough  to  hold  two  or  three  men 
at  a  pinch. 

Soon  after  six  o'clock,  then,  the  altar  was  ready  and 
the  priest  stood  vested.  He  retired  a  pace  from  the  altar, 
signed  himself  with  the  cross,  and  with  Mr.  John  Fitz- 
Herbert  and  his  son  Thomas  on  either  side  of  him,  began 
the  preparation.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  strange  and  an  inspiriting  sight  that  the  young 
priest  (for  it  was  Mr.  Simpson  who  was  saying  the  mass) 
looked  upon  as  he  turned  round  after  the  gospel  to  make 
his  little  sermon.  From  end  to  end  the  tiny  chapel  was  full, 
packed  so  that  few  could  kneel  and  none  sit  down.  The 
two  doors  were  open,  and  here  two  faces  peered  in;  and 
behind,  rank  after  rank  down  the  steps  and  along  the  little 
passage,  the  folk  stood  or  knelt,  out  of  sight  of  both  priest 
and  altar,  and  almost  out  of  sound.  The  sanctuary  was  full 
of  children — whose  round-eyed,  solemn  faces  looked  up  at 
him — children  who  knew  little  or  nothing  of  what  was  pass- 
ing, except  that  they  were  there  to  worship  God,  but  who, 


94  COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE! 

for  all  that,  received  impressions  and  associations  that 
could  never  thereafter  wholly  leave  them.  The  chapel 
was  still  completely  dark,  for  the  faint  light  of  dawn  was 
excluded  by  the  heavy  hangings  over  the  windows;  and 
there  was  but  the  light  of  the  two  tapers  to  show  the  people 
to  one  another  and  the  priest  to  them  all. 

It  was  an  inspiriting  sight  to  him  then — and  one  which 
well  rewarded  him  for  his  labours,  since  there  was  not  a 
class  from  gentlemen  to  labourers  who  was  not  represented 
there.  The  FitzHerberts,  the  Babingto.ns,  the  Fentons — - 
these,  with  their  servants  and  guests,  accounted  for  per- 
haps half  of  the  folk.  From  the  shadow  by  the  door  peeped 
out  the  faces  of  John  Merton  and  his  wife  and  son;  be- 
neath the  window  was  the  solemn  face  of  Mr.  Manners 
the  lawyer,  with  his  daughter  beside  him,  Robin  Audrey 
beside  her,  and  Dick  his  servant  behind  him.  Surely, 
thought  the  young  priest,  the  Faith  could  not  be  in  its 
final  decay,  with  such  a  gathering  as  this. 

His  little  sermon  was  plain  enough  for  the  most  foolish 
there.  He  spoke  of  Christ's  Resurrection;  of  how  death 
had  no  power  to  hold  Him,  nor  pains  nor  prison  to  de- 
tain Him;  and  he  spoke,  too,  of  that  mystical  life  of  His 
which  He  yet  lived  in  His  body,  which  was  the  Church; 
of  how  Death,  too,  stretched  forth  his  hands  against  Him 
there,  and  yet  had  no  more  force  to  hold  Him  than  in  His 
natural  life  lived  on  earth  near  sixteen  hundred  years  ago; 
how  a  Resurrection  awaited  Him  here  in  England  as  in 
Jerusalem,  if  His  friends  would  be  constant  and  courage- 
ous, not  faithless,  but  believing. 

"  Even  here,"  he  said,  "  in  this  upper  chamber,  where 
we  are  gathered  for  fear  of  the  Jews,  comes  Jesus  and 
stands  in  the  midst,  the  doors  being  shut.  Upon  this 
altar  He  will  be  presently,  the  Lamb  slain  yet  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  95 

victorious,  to  give  us  all  that  peace  which  the  world  can 
neither  give  nor  take  away." 

And  he  added  a  few  words  of  exhortation  and  encourage- 
ment, bidding  them  fear  nothing  whatever  might  come  upon 
them  in  the  future;  to  hold  fast  to  the  faith  once  delivered 
to  the  saints,  and  so  to  attain  the  heavenly  crown.  He  was 
not  eloquent,  for  he  was  but  a  young  man  newly  come 
from  college,  with  no  great  gifts.  Yet  not  a  soul  there 
looked  upon  him,  on  his  innocent,  wondering  eyes  and  his 
quivering  lips,  but  was  moved  by  what  he  saw  and  heard. 

The  priest  signed  himself  with  the  cross,  and  turned 
again  to  continue  the  mass. 

II 

"  You  tell  me,  then,"  said  the  girl  quietly,  "  that  all  is 
as  it  was  with  you?     God  has  told  you  nothing?  " 
Robin  was  silent. 

Mass  had  been  done  an  hour  or  more,  and  for  the  most 
part  the  company  was  dispersed  again,  after  refreshment 
spread  in  the  hall,  except  for  those  who  were  to  stay  to 
dinner,  and  these  two  had  slipped  away  at  last  to  talk 
together  in  the  woods ;  for  the  court  was  still  filled  with 
servants  coming  and  going,  and  the  parlours  occupied.  In 
one  the  ladies  were  still  busy  with  the  altar  furniture;  in 
the  other  the  priest  sat  to  talk  in  private  with  those  who 
were  come  from  a  distance;  and  as  for  the  hall — this,  too, 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  servants,  since  not  less  than  thirty 
gentle  folk  were  to  dine  there  that  day. 

Robin  had  come  to  Booth's  Edge  at  the  beginning  of 
Passion  week,  and  had  been  there  ever  since.  He  had 
refrained,  at  Marjorie's  entreaty,  from  speaking  of  her  to 
her  parents;  and  they,  too,  ruled  by  their  daughter,  had 


96  COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE! 

held  their  tongues  on  the  matter.  Everything  else,  how- 
ever, had  been  discussed — the  effect  of  the  squire's  apos- 
tasy, the  alternatives  that  presented  themselves  to  the  boy, 
the  future  behaviour  of  him  to  his  father — all  these  things 
had  been  spoken  of;  and  even  the  priest  called  into  council 
during  the  last  two  or  three  days.  Yet  not  much  had 
come  of  it.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  the  lawyer 
had  offered  the  boy  a  place  in  his  office;  Anthony  Babing- 
ton  had  proposed  his  coming  to  Dethick  if  his  father  turned 
him  out;  while  Robin  himself  inclined  to  a  third  alterna- 
tive— the  begging  of  his  father  to  give  him  a  sum  of  money 
and  be  rid  of  him;  after  which  he  proposed,  with  youthful 
vagueness,  to  set  off  for  London  and  see  what  he  could  do 
there. 

Marjorie,  however,  had  seemed  strangely  uninterested  in 
such  proposals.  She  had  listened  with  patience,  bowing 
her  head  in  assent  to  each,  beginning  once  or  twice  a  word 
of  criticism,  and  stopping  herself  before  she  had  well  begun. 
But  she  had  looked  at  Robin  with  more  than  interest;  and 
her  mother  had  found  her  more  than  once  on  her  knees 
in  her  own  chamber,  in  tears.  Yet  she  had  said  nothing, 
except  that  she  would  speak  her  mind  after  Easter, 
perhaps. 

And  now,  it  seemed,  she  was  doing  it. 

"  You  have  had  no  other  thought  ? "  she  said  again, 
"besides  those  of  which  you  talked  with  my  father?  " 

They  were  walking  together  through  the  woods,  half  a 
mile  along  the  Hathersage  valley.  Beneath  them  the 
ground  fell  steeply  away,  above  them  it  rose  as  steeply  to 
the  right.  Underfoot  the  new  life  of  spring  was  bourgeon- 
ing in  mould  and  grass  and  undergrowth;  for  the  heather 
did  not  come  down  so  far  as  this;  and  the  daffodils  and 
celandine  and  wild  hyacinth  lay  in  carpets  of  yellow  and 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  97 

blue,  infinitely  sweet,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
and  in  the  open  sunshine.  (It  was  at  this  time  that  the 
squire  of  Matstead  was  entering  the  church  and  hearing 
of  the  promises  of  the  Lord  to  the  sinner  who  forsook 
his  sinful  ways.) 

"  I  have  had  other  thoughts,"  said  the  boy  slowly,  "  but 
they  are  so  wild  and  foolish  that  I  have  determined  to 
think  no  more  of  them." 

"  You  are  determined?  " 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"You  are  sure,  then,  that  they  are  not  from  God?" 
asked  the  girl,  torn  between  fear  and  hope.  He  was  silent; 
and  her  heart  sank  again. 

He  looked,  indeed,  a  bewildered  boy,  borne  down  by  a 
weight  that  was  too  heavy  for  his  years.  He  walked  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  hatless  head  bowed,  regard- 
ing his  feet  and  the  last  year's  leaves1  on  which  he  walked. 
A  cuckoo  across  the  valley  called  with  the  insistence  of 
one  who  will  be  answered. 

"  My  Robin,"  said  the  girl,  "  the  last  thing  I  would 
have  you  do  is  to  tell  me  what  you  would  not.  .  .  .  Will 
you  not  speak  to  the  priest  about  it?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  the  priest." 

"Yes?" 

"  He  tells  me  he  does  not  know  what  to  think." 

"  Would  you  do  this  thing — whatever  it  may  be — if  the 
priest  told  you  it  was  God's  will?  " 

There  was  a  pause;  and  then: 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Robin,  so  low  she  could  scarcely 
hear  him. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  to  reassure  herself. 

"  Listen !  "  she  said.  "  I  must  say  a  little  of  what  I 
think;  but  not  all.  Our  Lord  must  finish  it  to  you,  if  it  is 
according  to  His  will." 


98  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

He  glanced  at  her  swiftly,  and  down  again,  like  a 
frightened  child.  Yet  even  in  that  glance  he  could  see  that 
it  was  all  that  she  could  do  to  force  herself  to  speak;  and 
by  that  look  he  understood  for  the  first  time  something  of 
that  which  she  was  suffering. 

"  You  know  first,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  promised  to  you. 
I  hold  that  promise  as  sacred  as  anything  on  earth  can  be." 

Her  voice  shook  a  little.  The  boy  bowed  his  head  again. 
She  went  on: 

"  But  there  are  some  things,"  she  said,  "  more  sacred  than 
anything  on  earth — those  things  that  come  from  heaven. 
Now,  I  wish  to  say  this — and  then  have  done  with  it:  that 
if  such  should  be  God's  will,  I  would  not  hold  you  for  a 
day.  We  are  Catholics,  you  and  I.  ...  Your  father " 

Her  voice  broke;  and  she  stopped;  yet  without  leaving 
go  of  her  hold  upon  herself.  Only  she  could  not  speak  for 
a  moment. 

Then  a  great  fury  seized  on  the  boy.  It  was  one  of 
those  angers  that  for  a  while  poison  the  air  and  turn  all 
things  sour;  yet  without  obscuring  the  mind — an  anger 
in  which  the  angry  one  strikes  first  at  that  which  he  loves 
most,  because  he  loves  it  most,  knowing,  too,  that  the 
words  he  speaks  are  false.  For  this,  for  the  present,  was 
the  breaking-point  in  the  lad.  He  had  suffered  torments 
in  his  soul,  ever  since  the  hour  in  which  he  had  ridden  into 
the  gate  of  his  own  home  after  his  talk  in  the  empty  chapel ; 
he  had  striven  to  put  away  from  him  that  idea  for  which 
the  girl's  words  had  broken  an  entrance  into  his  heart. 
And  now  she  would  give  him  no  peace;  she  continued  to 
press  on  him  from  without  that  which  already  pained  him 
within;  so  he  turned  on  her. 

"You  wish  to  be  rid  of  me !  "  he  cried  fiercely. 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  aston- 
ished, and  her  face  gone  white. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  99 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  said. 

His  conscience  pierced  him  like  a  sword.  Yet  he  set 
his  teeth. 

"  You  wish  to  be  rid  of  me.  You  are  urging  me  to  leave 
you.  You  talk  to  me  of  God's  will  and  God's  voice,  and 
you  have  no  pity  on  me  at  all.  It  is  an  excuse — a  blind." 

He  stood  raging.  The  very  fact  that  he  knew  every 
word  to  be  false  made  his  energy  the  greater;  for  he  could 
not  have  said  it  otherwise. 

"  You  think  that !  "  she  whispered. 

There,  then,  they  stood,  eyeing  one  another.  A  stranger, 
coming  suddenly  upon  them,  would  have  said  it  was  a 
lovers'  tiff,  and  have  laughed  at  it.  Yet  it  was  a  deeper 
matter  than  that. 

Then  there  surged  over  the  boy  a  wave  of  shame;  and 
the  truth  prevailed.  His  fair  face  went  scarlet;  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  dropped  on  his  knees  in  the 
leaves,  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Oh !  you  must  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "  But  .  .  .  but  I 
cannot  do  it !  " 

III 

It  was  a  great  occasion  in  the  hall  that  Easter  Day.  The 
three  tables,  which,  according  to  custom,  ran  along  the 
walls,  were  filled  to-day  with  guests;  and  a  second  dinner 
was  to  follow,  scarcely  less  splendid  than  the  first,  for 
their  servants  as  well  as  for  those  of  the  household.  The 
floor  was  spread  with  new  rushes;  jugs  of  March  beer,  a 
full  month  old,  as  it  should  be,  were  ranged  down  the 
tables ;  and  by  every  plate  lay  a  posy  of  flowers?.  From 
the  passage  outside  came  the  sound  of  music. 

The  feast  began  with  the  reading  of  the  Gospel;  at  the 
close,  Mr.  John  struck  with  his  hand  upon  the  table  as  a 
signal  for  conversation;  the  doors  opened;  the  servants 


100  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

came  in,  and  a  babble  of  talk  broke  out.  At  the  high 
table  the  master  of  the  house  presided,  with  the  priest  on 
his  right,  Mrs.  Manners  and  Marjorie  beyond  him;  on 
his  left,  Mrs.  Fenton  and  her  lord.  At  the  other  two 
tables  Mr.  Thomas  presided  at  one  and  Mr.  Babington 
at  the  other. 

The  talk  was,  of  course,  within  the  bounds  of  discretion ; 
though  once  and  again  sentences  were  spoken  which  would 
scarcely  have  pleased  the  minister  of  the  parish.  For  they 
were  difficult  times  in  which  they  lived;  and  it  is  no  wonder 
at  all  if  bitterness  mixed  itself  with  charity.  Here  was 
Mr.  John,  for  instance,  come  to  Padley  expressly  for  the 
selling  of  some  meadows  to  meet  his  fines;  here  was  his 
son  Thomas,  the  heir  now,  not  only  to  Padley,  but  to  Nor- 
bury,  whose  lord,  his  uncle,  lay  in  the  Fleet  Prison.  Here 
was  Mr.  Fenton,  who  had  suffered  the  like  in  the  matter  of 
fines  more  than  once.  Hardly  one  of  the  folk  there  but  had 
paid  a  heavy  price  for  his  conscience;  and  all  the  worship 
that  was  permitted  to  them,  and  that  by  circumstance,  and 
not  by  law,  was  such  as  they  had  engaged  in  that  morning 
with  shuttered  windows  and  a  sentinel  for  fear  that,  too, 
should  be  silenced. 

They  talked,  then,  guardedly  of  those  things,  since  the 
servants  were  in  and  out  continually,  and  though  all  pro- 
fessed the  same  faith  as  their  masters,  yet  these  were 
times  that  tried  loyalty  hard.  Mr.  John,  indeed,  gave 
news  of  his  brother  Sir  Thomas,  and  said  how  he  did;  and 
read  a  letter,  too,  from  Italy,  from  his  younger  brother 
Nicholas,  who  was  fled  abroad  after  a  year's  prison  at 
Oxford;  but  the  climax  of  the  talk  came  when  dinner  was 
over,  and  the  muscadel,  with  the  mould-jellies,  had  been 
put  upon  the  tables.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mr.  John 
nodded  to  his  son,  who  went  to  the  door  to  see  the  servants 
out,  and  stood  by  it  to  see  that  none  listened.  Then  his 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  101 

father  struck  his  hands  together  for  silence,  and  himself 
spoke. 

"  Mr.  Simpson/'  he  said,  "  has  something  to  say  to  us 
all.  It  is  not  a  matter  to  be  spoken  of  lightly,  as  you  will 
understand  presently.  .  .  .  Mr.  Simpson." 

The  priest  looked  up  timidly,  pulling  out  a  paper  from 
his  pocket. 

"  You  have  heard  of  Mr.  Nelson  ?  "  he  said  to  the  com- 
pany. "  Well,  he  was  a  priest ;  and  I  have  news  of  his 
death.  He  was  executed  in  London  on  the  third  of  Feb- 
ruary for  his  religion.  And  another  man,  a  Mr.  Sherwood, 
was  executed  a  few  days  afterwards." 

There  was  a  rustle  along  the  benches.  Some  there  had 
heard  of  the  fact,  but  no  more;  some  had  heard  nothing  of 
either  the  man  or  his  death.  Two  or  three  faces  turned  a 
shade  paler;  and  then  the  silence  settled  down  again.  For 
here  was  a  matter  that  touched  them  all  closely  enough; 
since  up  to  now  scarcely  a  priest  except  Mr.  Cuthbert 
Maine  had  suffered  death  for  his  religion;  and  even  of  him 
some  of  the  more  tolerant  said  that  it  was  treason  with 
which  he  was  charged.  They  had  heard,  indeed,  of  a 
priest  or  two  having  been  sent  abroad  into  exile  for  his 
faith;  but  the  most  of  them  thought  it  a  thing  incredible 
that  in  England  at  this  time  a  man  should  suffer  death 
for  it.  Fines  and  imprisonment  were  one  thing;  to  such 
they  had  become  almost  accustomed.  But  death  was  an- 
other matter  altogether.  And  for  a  priest!  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  the  days  of  King  Harry  were  coming  back;  and 
that  every  Catholic  henceforth  should  go  in  peril  of  his 
life  as  well  as  of  liberty? 

The  folks  settled  themselves  tHen  in  their  seats;  one  or 
two  men  drank  off  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  I  have  heard  from  a  good  friend  of  mine  in  London," 
went  on  the  priest,  looking  at  his  paper,  "  one  who  followed 


102  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

every  step  of  the  trial ;  and  was  present  at  the  death.  They 
suffered  at  Tyburn.  .  .  .  However,  I  will  tell  you  what  he 
says'.  He  is  a  countryman  of  mine,  from  Yorkshire;  as 
was  Mr.  Nelson,  too. 

" '  Mr.  Nelson  was  taken  in  London  on  the  first  of 
December  last  year.  He  was  born  at  Shelton,  and  was 
about  forty-three  years  old;  he  was  the  son  of  Sir  Nicholas 
Nelson.' 

"  So  much,"  said  the  priest,  looking  up  from  his  paper, 
"  I  knew  myself.  I  saw  him  about  four  years  ago  just 
before  he  went  to  Douay,  and  he  came  back  to  England  as 
a  priest,  a  year  and  a  half  after.  Mr.  Sherwood  was  not  a 
priest;  he  had  been  at  Douay,  too,  but  as  a  scholar 
only.  .  .  .  Well,  we  will  speak  of  Mr.  Nelson  first.  This 
is  what  my  friend  says." 

He  spread  the  paper  before  him  on  the  table;  and  Mar- 
jorie,  looking  past  her  mother,  saw  that  his  hands  shook  as 
he  spread  it. 

' '  Mr.  Nelson,'  "  began  the  priest,  reading  aloud  with 
some  difficulty,  "  '  was  brought  before  my  lords,  and  first 
had  tendered  to  him  the  oath  of  the  Queen's  supremacy. 
This  he  refused  to  take,  saying  that  no  lay  prince  could 
have  pre-eminence  over  Christ's  Church;  and,  upon  being 
pressed  as  to  who  then  could  have  it,  answered,  Christ's 
Vicar  only,  the  successor  of  Peter.  Further,  he  proceeded 
to  say,  under  questioning,  that  since  the  religion  of  England 
at  this  time  is  schismatic  and  heretical,  so  also  is  the 
Queen's  Grace  who  is  head  of  it. 

'  This,  then,  was  what  was  wanted ;  and  after  a  delay 
of  a  few  weeks,  the  same  questions  being  put  to  him,  and 
his  answers  being  the  same,  he  was  sentenced  to  death.  He 
was  very  fortunate  in  his  imprisonment.  I  had  speech  with 
him  two  or  three  times  and  was  the  means,  by  God's 
blessing,  of  bringing  another  priest  to  him,  to  whom  he 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  103 

confessed  himself;  and  with  whom  he  received  the  Body  of 
Christ  a  day  before  he  suffered. 

On  the  third  of  February,  knowing  nothing  of  his 
death  being  so  near,  he  was  brought  up  to  a  higher  part  of 
the  prison,  and  there  told  he  was  to  suffer  that  day.  His 
kinsmen  were  admitted  to  him  then,  to  bid  him  farewell; 
and  afterwards  two  ministers  came  to  turn  him  from  his 
faith  if  they  could;  but  they  prevailed  nothing.'" 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  reading;  but  there  was  no 
movement  among  any  that  listened.  Robin,  watching  from 
his  place  at  the  right-hand  table,  cold  at  heart,  ran  his 
eyes  along  the  faces.  The  priest  was  as  white  as  death, 
with  the  excitement,  it  seemed,  of  having  to  tell  such  a 
tale.  His  host  beside  him  seemed  downcast  and  quiet, 
but  perfectly  composed.  Mrs.  Manners  had  her  eyes 
closed;  Anthony  Babington  was  frowning  to  himself  with 
tight  lips;  Marjorie  he  could  not  see. 

With  a  great  effort  the  reader  resumed : 

'  When  he  was  laid  on  the  hurdle  he  refused  to  ask 
pardon  of  the  Queen's  Grace;  for,  said  he,  I  have  never 
yet  offended  her.  I  was  beside  him,  and  heard  it.  And  he 
added,  when  those  who  stood  near  stormed  at  him,  that  it 
was  better  to  be  hanged  than  to  burn  in  hell-fire. 

'  There  was  a  great  concourse  of  people  at  Tyburn, 
but  kept  back  by  the  officers  so  that  they  could  not  come  at 
him.  When  he  was  in  the  cart,  first  he  commended  his 
spirit  into  God's  Hands,  saying  In  manus  iuas,  etc.;  then 
he  besought  all  Catholics  that  were  present  to  pray  for  him; 
I  saw  a  good  many  who  signed  themselves  in  the  crowd; 
and  then  he  said  some  prayers  in  Latin ;  with  the  psalms 
Miserere  and  De  Profundis.  And  then  he  addressed  him- 
self to  the  people,  telling  them  he  died  for  his  religion, 
which  was  the  Catholic  Roman  one,  and  prayed,  and  de- 
sired them  to  pray,  that  God  would  bring  all  Englishmen 


104  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

into  it.  The  crowd  cried  out  at  that,  exclaiming  against 
this  Catholic  Romish  Faith;  and  so  he  said  what  he  had  to 
say,  over  again.  Then,  before  the  cart  was  drawn  away 
from  him  to  leave  him  to  hang,  he  asked  pardon  of  all 
them  he  had  offended,  and  even  of  the  Queen,  if  he  had  in- 
deed offended  her.  Then  one  of  the  sheriffs  called  on  the 
hangman  to  make  an  end;  so  Mr.  Nelson  prayed  again  in 
silence,  and  then  begged  all  Catholics  that  were  there  once 
more  to  pray  that,  by  the  bitter  passion  of  Christ,  his  soul 
might  be  received  into  everlasting  joy.  And  they  did  so; 
for  as  the  cart  was  drawn  away  a  great  number  cried  out, 
and  I  with  them,  Lord,  receive  his  soul. 

' '  He  was  cut  down,  according  to  sentence,  before  he 
was  dead,  and  the  butchery  begun  on  him;  and  when  it 
was  near  over,  he  moved  a  little  in  his  pain,  and  said  that 
he  forgave  the  Queen  and  all  that  caused  or  consented  to 
his?  death:  and  so  he  died.'  " 

The  priest's  voice,  which  had  shaken  again  and  again, 
grew  so  tremulous  as  he  ended  that  those  that  were  at  the 
end  of  the  hall  could  scarcely  hear  him;  and,  as  it  ceased, 
a  murmur  ran  along  the  seats. 

Mr.  FitzHerbert  leaned  over  to  the  priest  and  whispered. 
The  priest  nodded,  and  the  other  held  up  his  hand  for 
silence. 

"  There  is  more  yet,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Simpson,  with  a  hand  that  still  shook  so  violently 
that  he  could  hardly  hold  his  glass,  lifted  and  drank  off  a 
cup  of  muscadel.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat,  sat  up  a 
little  in  his  chair,  and  resumed: 

'  Next  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Sherwood,  to  talk  to  him  in 
prison  and  to  encourage  him  by  telling  him  of  the  passion 
of  the  other  and  how  bravely  he  bore  it.  Mr.  Sherwood 
took  it  very  well,  and  said  that  he  was  afraid  of  nothing, 
that  he  had  reconciled  his  mind  to  it  long  ago,  and  had 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  105 

rehearsed  it  all  two  or  three  times,  so  that  he  would  know 
what  to  say  and  how  to  bear  himself." 

Mr.  FitzHerbert  leaned  over  again  to  the  priest  at  this 
point  and  whispered  something.  Mr.  Simpson  nodded,  and 
raised  his  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Sherwood,"  he  said,  "  was  a  scholar  from  Douay, 
but  not  a  priest.  He  was  lodging  in  the  house  of  a 
Catholic  lady,  and  had  procured  mass  to  be  said  there,  and 
it  was  through  her  son  that  he  was  taken  and  charged 
with  recusancy." 

Again  ran  a  rustle  through  the  benches.  This  executing 
of  the  laity  for  religion  was  a  new  thing  in  their  experience. 
The  priest  lifted  the  paper  again. 

1 '  I  found  that  Mr.  Sherwood  had  been  racked  many 
times  in  the  Tower,  during  the  six  months  he  was  in  prison, 
to  force  him  to  tell,  if  they  could,  where  he  had  heard 
mass  and  who  had  said  it.  But  they  could  prevail  nothing. 
Further,  no  visitor  was  admitted  to  him  all  this  time,  and 
I  was  the  first  and  the  last  that  he  had;  and  that  though 
Mr.  Roper  himself  had  tried  to  get  at  him  for  his  relief; 
for  he  was  confined  underground  and  lay  in  chains  and 
filth  not  to  be  described.  I  said  what  I  could  to  him,  but 
he  said  he  needed  nothing  and  was  content,  though  hi& 
pain  must  have  been  very  great  all  this  while,  what  with 
the  racking  repeated  over  and  over  again  and  the  place  he 
lay  in. 

"  '  I  was  present  again  when  he  suffered  at  Tyburn,  bul 
was  too  far  away  to  hear  anything  that  he  said,  and 
scarcely,  indeed,  could  see  him;  but  I  learned  afterwards 
that  he  died  well  and  courageously,  as  a  Catholic  should, 
and  made  no  outcry  or  complaint  when  the  butchery  was 
done  on  him. 

"  '  This,  then,  is  the  news  I  have  to  send  you — sorrowful, 
indeed,  yet  joyful,  too;  for  surely  we  may  think  that  they 


106  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

who  bore  such  pains  for  Christ's  sake  with  such  constancy 
will  intercede  for  us  whom  they  leave  behind.  I  am  hoping 
myself  to  come  North  again  before  I  go  to  Douay  next 
year,  and  will  see  you  then  and  tell  you  more.'  " 

The  priest  laid  down  the  paper,  trembling. 

Mr.  FitzHerbert  looked  up. 

"  It  will  give  pleasure  to  the  company,"  he  said,  "  to 
know  that  the  writer  of  the  letter  is  Mr.  Ludlam,  from  Rad- 
bourne,  in  this  county.  As  you  have  heard,  he,  too,  hopes 
by  God's  mercy  to  be  made  priest  and  to  come  back  to 
England." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


IN  the  following  week  Robin  went  home  again. 

The  clear  weather  of  Easter  had  broken,  and  racing 
clouds,  thick  as  a  pall,  sped  across  the  sky  that  had  been  so 
blue  and  so  cheerful;  a  wind  screamed  all  day,  now  high, 
now  low,  shattering  the  tender  flowers  of  spring,  ruffling 
the  Derwent  against  its  current,  by  which  he  rode,  and 
dashing  spatters  of  rain  now  and  again  on  his  back,  tossing 
high  and  wide  the  branches  under  which  he  went,  until  the 
woods  themselves  became  as  a  great  melancholy  organ, 
making  sad  music  about  him. 

When  a  mind  is  fluent  and  uncertain  there  is  no  describ- 
ing it.  He  thought  he  had  come  to  a  decision  last  week; 
he  found  that  the  decision  was  shattered  as  soon  as  made. 
He  had  talked  to  the  priest;  he  had  resisted  Marjorie;  and 
yet  to  neither  of  them  had  he  put  into  formal  words  what 
it  was  that  troubled  him.  He  had  asked  questions  about 
vocation,  about  the  place  that  circumstance  occupies  in  it, 
of  the  value  of  dispositions,  fears,  scruples,  and  resistance. 
He  had,  that  is,  fingered  his  wound,  half  uncovered  it,  and 
then  covered  it  up  again,  tormented  it,  glanced  at  it  and 
then  glanced  aside;  yet  the  one  thing  he  had  not  done  was 
to  probe  it — not  even  to  allow  another  to  do  so. 

His  mind,  then,  was  fluent  and  distracted;  it  formed 
images  before  him,  which  dissolved  as  soon  as  formed;  it 
whirled  in  little  eddies;  it  threw  up  obscuring  foam;  it 
ran  clear  one  instant,  and  the  next  broke  itself  in  rapids. 
He  could  neither  ease  it,  nor  dam  it  altogether,  and  he  did 
not  know  what  to  do. 

107 


108  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

As  he  rode  through  Froggatt,  he  saw  a  group  of  saddle- 
horses  standing  at  the  inn  door,  but  thought  nothing  of  it, 
till  a  man  ran  out  of  the  door,  still  holding  his  pot,  and 
saluted  him,  and  he  recognised  him  to  be  one  of  Mr. 
Babington's  men. 

"  My  master  is  within,  sir,"  he  said;  "he  bade  me  look 
out  for  you." 

Robin  drew  rein,  and  as  he  did  so,  Anthony,  too,  came 
out. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said.  "  I  heard  you  would  be  coming  this 
way.  Will  you  come  in?  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Robin  slipped  off,  leaving  his  mare  in  the  hands  of 
Anthony's  man,  since  he  himself  was  riding  alone,  with  his 
Valise  strapped  on  behind. 

It  was  a  little  room,  very  trim  and  well  kept,  on  the 
first  floor,  to  which  his  friend  led  him.  Anthony  shut  the 
door  carefully  and  came  across  to  the  settle  by  the  window- 
seat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  have  bad  news  for  you,  my  friend. 
Will  you  forgive  me?  I  have  seen  your  father  and  had 
words  with  him." 

"Eh?" 

"  I  said  nothing  to  you  before,"  went  on  the  other,  sit- 
ting down  beside  him.  "  I  knew  you  would  not  have  it  so, 
but  I  went  to  see  for  myself  and  to  put  a  question  or  two. 
He  is  your  father,  but  he  has  also  been  my  friend.  That 
gives  me  rights,  you  see !  " 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Robin  heavily. 

It  appeared  that  Anthony,  who  was  a  precise  as  well  as 
an  ardent  young  man,  had  had  scruples  about  trusting  to 
hearsay.  Certainly  it  was  rumoured  far  and  wide  that  the 
squire  of  Matstead  had  done  as  he  had  said  he  would  do, 
and  gone  to  church;  but  Mr.  Anthony  was  one  of  those 


COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE!  109 

spirits  who  will  always  have  things,  as  they  say,  from  the 
fountain-head;  partly  from  instincts  of  justice,  partly,  no 
doubt,  for  the  pleasure  of  making  direct  observations  to  the 
principals  concerned.  This  was  what  he  had  done  in  this 
case.  He  had  ridden,  without  a  word  to  any,  up  to  Mat- 
stead,  and  had  demanded  to  be  led  to  the  squire;  and  there 
and  then,  refusing  to  sit  down  till  he  was  answered,  had  put 
his  question.  There  had  been  a  scene.  The  squire  had 
referred  to  puppies  who  wanted  drowning,  to  young  sparks, 
and  to  such  illustrative  similes ;  and  Anthony,  in  spite  of 
his  youthful  years,  had  flared  out  about  turncoats  and  lick- 
spittles. There  had  been  a  very  pretty  ending:  the  squire 
had  shouted  for  his  servants  and  Anthony  for  his,  and  the 
two  parties  had  eyed  one  another,  growling  like  dogs, 
until  bloodshed  seemed  imminent.  Then  the  visitor  had 
himself  solved  the  situation  by  stalking  out  of  the  house 
from  which  the  squire  was  proposing  to  flog  him,  mount- 
ing his  horse,  and  with  a  last  compliment  or  two  had  rid- 
den away.  And  here  he  was  at  Froggatt  on  his  return 
journey,  having  eaten  there  that  dinner  which  no  longer 
would  be  spread  for  him  at  Matstead. 

Robin  sat  silent  till  the  tale  was  done,  and  at  the  end  of 
it  Anthony  was  striding  about  the  room,  aflame  again  with 
wrath,  gesticulating  and  raging  aloud. 

Then  Robin  spoke,  holding  up  his  hand  for  moderation. 
"  You  will  have  the  whole  house  here,"  he  said.  "  Well, 
.you  have  cooked  my  goose  for  me." 

"  Bah !  that  was  cooked  at  Passiontide  when  you  went 
to  Booth's  Edge.  Do  you  think  he'll  ever  have  a  Papist 
in  his  house  again?" 

"  Did  he  say  so?  " 

"  No ;  but  he  said  enough  about  his  '  young  cub.'  ... 
Nonsense,  man!  Come  home  with  me  to  Dethick.  We'll 
find  occupation  enough." 


110  COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE! 

"  Did  he  say  he  would  not  have  me  home  again  ?  " 

"  No/'  bawled  Anthony.  "  I  have  told  you  he  did  not 
say  so  outright.  But,  he  said  enough  to  show  he'd  have 
no  rebels,  as  he  called  them,  in  his  Protestant  house! 
Dick's  to  leave.  Did  you  hear  that?  " 

"Dick!" 

"  Why,  certainly.  There  was  a  to-do  on  Sunday,  and 
Dick  spoke  his  mind.  He'll  come  to  me,  he  says,  if  you 
have  no  service  for  him." 

Robin  set  his  teeth.  It  seemed  as  if  the  pelting  blows 
would  never  cease. 

"  Come  with  me  to  Dethick !  "  said  Anthony  again.  "  I 
tell  you " 

"Well?" 

"  There'll  be  time  enough  to  tell  you  when  you  come. 
But  I  promise  you  occupation  enough." 

He  paused,  as  if  he  would  say  more  and  dared  not. 

"  You  must  tell  me  more,"  said  the  lad  slowly.  "  What 
kind  of  occupation  ?  " 

Then  Anthony  did  a  queer  thing.  He  first  glanced  at 
the  door,  and  then  went  to  it  quickly  and  threw  it  open. 
The  little  lobby  was  empty.  He  went  out,  leaned  over 
the  stair  and  called  one  of  his  men. 

"  Sit  you  there,"  he  said,  with  the  glorious  nonchalance 
of  a  Babington,  "  and  let  no  man  by  till  I  tell  you." 

He  came  back,  closed  the  door,  bolted  it,  and  then  came 
across  and  sat  down  by  his  friend. 

"  Do  you  think  the  rest  of  us  are  doing  nothing  ?  "  he 
whispered.  "  Why,  I  tell  you  that  a  dozen  of  us  in  Derby- 
shire  "  He  broke  off  once  more.  "  I  may  not  tell 

you,"  he  said,  "  I  must  ask  leave  first." 

A  light  began  to  glimmer  before  Robin's  mind;  the 
light  broadened  suddenly  and  intensely,  and  his  whole  soul 
leapt  to  meet  it. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  Ill 

"  Do  you  mean ?  "     And   then   he,  too,  broke  off, 

well  knowing  enough,  though  not  all  of,  what  was  meant. 

It  was  quiet  here  within  this  room,  in  spite  of  the  village 
street  outside.  It  was  dinner-time,  and  all  were  within 
doors  or  out  at  their  affairs;  and  except  for  the  stamp  of 
a  horse  now  and  again,  and  the  scream  of  the  wind  in  the 
keyhole  and  between  the  windows,  there  was  little  to  hear. 
And  in  the  lad's  soul  was  a  tempest. 

He  knew  well  enough  now  what  his  friend  meant,  though 
nothing  of  the  details ;  and  from  the  secrecy  and  excitement 
of  the  young  man's  manner  he  understood  what  the  char- 
acter of  his  dealings'  would  likely  be,  and  towards  those 
dealings  his  whole  nature  leaped  as  a  fish  to  the  water. 
Was  it  possible  that  this  way  lay  the  escape  from  his  own 
torment  of  conscience?  Yet  he  must  put  a  question  first,  in 
honesty. 

"  Tell  me  this  much,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Do  you 
mean  that  this  .  .  .  this  affair  will  be  against  men's 
lives  ...  or  ...  or  such  as  even  a  priest  might  engage 
in?" 

Then  the  light  of  fanaticism  leaped  to  the  eyes  of  his 
friend,  and  his  face  brightened  wonderfully. 

"  Do  they  observe  the  courtesies  and  forms  of  law?  " 
he  snarled.  "  Did  Nelson  die  by  God's  law,  or  did  Sher- 
wood— those  we  know  of?  I  will  tell  you  this,"  he  said, 
"  and  no  more  unless  you  pledge  yourself  to  us  ...  that 
we  count  it  as  warfare — in  Christ's  Name  yes — but  war- 
fare for  all  that." 

There  then  lay  the  choice  before  this  lad,  and  surely  it 
was  as  hard  a  choice  as  ever  a  man  had  to  make.  On  the 
one  side  lay  such  an  excitement  as  he  had  never  yet  known 
•*-for  Anthony  was  no  merely  mad  fool — a  path,  too,  that 


112  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

gave  him  hopes  of  Marjorie,  that  gave  him  an  escape  from 
home  without  any  more  ado,  a  task  besides  which  he  could 
tell  himself  honestly  was,  at  least,  for  the  cause  that  lay  so 
near  to  Marjorie's  heart,  and  was  beginning  to  lie  near  his 
own.  And  on  the  other  there  was  open  to  him  that  against 
which  he  had  fought  now  day  after  day,  in  misery — a  life 
that  had  no  single  attraction  to  the  natural  man  in  him,  a 
life  that  meant  the  loss  of  Marjorie  for  ever. 

The  colour  died  from  his  lips  as  he  considered  this. 
Surely  all  lay  Anthony's  way:  Anthony  was  a  gentleman 
like  himself;  he  would  do  nothing  that  was  not  worthy  of 
one.  .  .  .  What  he  had  said  of  warfare  was  surely  sound 
logic.  Were  they  not  already  at  war?  Had  not  the  Queen 
declared  it?  And  on  the  other  side — nothing.  Nothing. 
Except  that  a  voice  within  him  on  that  other  side  cried 
louder  and  louder — it  seemed  in  despair:  "  This  is  the 
way;  walk  in  it." 

"  Come,"  whispered  Anthony  again. 

Robin  stood  up ;  he  made  as  if  to  speak ;  then  he  silenced 
himself  and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro  in  the  little  room. 
He  could  hear  voices  from  the  room  beneath — Anthony's 
men  talking  there  no  doubt.  They  might  be  his  men,  too, 
at  the  lifting  of  a  finger — they  and  Dick.  There  were  the 
horses  waiting  without;  he  heard  the  jingle  of  a  bit  as  one 
tossed  his  head.  Those  were  the  horses  that  would  go 
back  to  Dethick  and  Derby,  and,  may  be,  half  over  Eng- 
land. 

He  walked  to  and  fro  half  a  dozen  times  without  speak- 
ing, and,  if  he  had  but  guessed  it,  he  might  have  been 
comforted  to  know  that  his  manhood  flowed  in  upon  him,  as 
a  tide  coming  in  over  a  flat  beach.  These  instants  added 
more  years  to  him  than  as  many  months  that  had  gone 
before.  His  boyhood  was  passing,  since  experience  and 
conflict,  whether  it  «nd  in  victory  or  defeat,  give  the  years 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  113 

to  a  man  far  more  than  the  passing  of  time.  So  in  God's 
sight  Robin  added  many  inches  to  the  stature  of  his  spirit 
in  this  little  parlour  of  Froggatt. 

Yet,  though  he  conquered  then,  he  did  not  know  that  he 
conquered.  He  still  believed,  as  he  turned  at  last  and 
faced  his  friend,  that  his  mind  was  yet  to  make  up,  and 
his  whisper  was  harsh  and  broken. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  whispered.  "  I  must  go  home 
first." 


II 

Dick  was  waiting  by  the  porter's  lodge  as  the  boy  rode 
in,  and  walked  up  beside  him  with  his  brown  hand  on  the 
horse's  shoulder.  Robin  could  not  say  much,  and,  besides, 
his  confidence  must  be  tied. 

"  So  you  are  going,"  he  said  softly. 

The  man  nodded. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Babington.  .  .  .  You  cannot  do  better,  I 
think,  than  go  to  him." 

It  was  with  a  miserable  heart  that  an  hour  or  two  later 
he  came  down  to  supper.  His  father  was  already  at  table, 
sitting  grimly  in  his  place;  he  made  no  sign  of  welcome 
or  recognition  as  his  son  came  in.  During  the  meal  itself 
this  was  of  no  great  consequence,  as  silence  was  the  cus- 
tom ;  but  the  boy's  heart  sank  yet  further  as,  still  without 
a  word  to  him,  the  squire  rose  from  table  at  the  end  and 
went  as  usual  through  the  parlour  door.  He  hesitated  a 
moment  before  following.  Then  he  grasped  his  courage 
and  went  after. 

All  things  were  as  usual  there — the  wine  set  out  and  the 
sweetmeats,  and  his  father  in  his  usual  place.  Yet  still 
tfiere  was  silence. 


114  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Robin  began  to  meditate  again,  yet  alert  for  a  sign  or  a 
word.  It  was  in  this  little  room,  he  understood,  that  the 
dispute  with  Anthony  had  taken  place  a  few  hours  before, 
and  he  looked  round  it,  almost  wondering  that  all  seemed 
so  peaceful.  It  was  this  room,  too,  that  was  associated 
with  so  much  that  was  happy  in  his  life — drawn-out  hours 
after  supper,  when  his  father  was  in  genial  moods,  or  when 
company  was  there — company  that  would  never  come  again 
— and  laughter  and  gallant  talk  went  round.  There  was 
the  fire  burning  in  the  new  stove — that  which  had  so  much 
excited  him  only  a  year  or  two  ago,  for  it  was  then  the 
first  that  he  had  ever  seen:  there  was  the  table  where  he 
had  written  his  little  letter;  there  was  "  Christ  carrying 
His  Cross." 

"  So  you  have  sent  your  friend  to  insult  me,  now !  " 

Robin  started.  The  voice  was  quiet  enough,  but  full  of 
a  suppressed  force. 

"  I  have  not,  sir.  I  met  Mr.  Babington  at  Froggatt 
on  his  way  back.  He  told  me.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
it." 

"  And  you  talked  with  him  at  Padley,  too,  no  doubt?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

His  father  suddenly  wheeled  round  on  him. 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  no  sense,  then  ?  Do  you  think  I 
do  not  know  what  you  and  your  friends  speak  of  ?  " 

Robin  was  silent. 

He  was  astonished  how  little  afraid  he  was.  His  heart 
beat  loud  enough  in  his  ears ;  yet  he  felt  none  of  that  help- 
lessness that  had  fallen  on  him  before  when  his  father  was 
angry.  .  .  .  Certainly  he  had  added  to  his  stature  in  the 
parlour  at  Froggatt. 

The  old  man  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  drank  it. 
His  face  was  flushed  high,  and  he  was  using  more  words 
than  usual. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  115 

"  Well,  sir,  there  are  other  affairs  we  must  speak  of ; 
and  then  no  more  of  them.  I  wish  to  know  your  meaning 
for  the  time  to  come.  There  must  be  no  more  fooling  this 
way  and  that.  I  shall  pay  no  fines  for  you — mark  that! 
If  you  must  stand  on  your  own  feet,  stand  on 
them.  .  .  .  Now  then !  " 

"  Do  you  mean,  am  I  coming  to  church  with  you,  sir?  " 

"  I  mean,  who  is  to  pay  your  fines?  .  .  .  Miss  Mar- 
jorie?  " 

Robin  s'et  his  teeth  at  the  sneer. 

"  I  have  not  yet  been  fined,  sir." 

"  Now  do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?  D'you  think  they'll 
let  you  off?  I  was  speaking " 

The  old  man  stopped. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

The  other  wheeled  his  face  on  him. 

"  If  you  will  have  it,"  he  said,  "  I  was  speaking  to  my 
two  good  friends  who  dined  here  on  Sunday.  I  was  plain 
with  them  and  they  were  plain  with  me.  '  I  shall  not 
pay  for  my  brat  of  a  son,'  I  said.  '  Then  he  must  pay  for 
himself/  said  they,  '  unless  we  lay  him  by  the  heels.'  '  Not 
in  my  house,  I  hope,'  I  said;  and  they  laughed  at  that. 
We  were  very  merry  together." 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"  Good  God!  have  I  a  fool  for  a  son?  I  ask  you  again, 
Who  is  it  to  pay  ?  " 

"When  will  they  demand  it?" 

"Why,  they  may  demand  it  next  week,  if  they  will! 
You  were  not  at  church  on  Sunday !  " 

"  I  was  not  in  Matstead,"  said  the  lad. 

"  But " 


"  And  Mr.  Barton  will  not,  I  think " 

The  old  man  struck  the  table  suddenly  and  violently. 
4 1  have  dropped  words  enough,"   he  cried.   "  Where's 


116  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  use  of  it?  If  you  think  they  will  let  you  alone,  I  tell 
you  they  will  not.  There  are  to  be  doings  before  Christ- 
mas, at  latest;  and  what  then?  " 

Then  Robin  drew  his  breath  sharply  between  his  teeth; 
and  knew  that  one  more  step  had  been  passed,  that  had 
separated  him  from  that  which  he  feared.  .  .  .  He  had 
come  just  now,  still  hesitating.  Still  there  had  been  pass- 
ing through  his  mind  hopes  and  ideas  of  what  his  father 
might  do  for  him.  He  knew  well  enough  that  he  would 
never  pay  the  fines,  amounting  sometimes  to  as  much  as 
twenty  pounds  a  month;  but  he  had  thought  that  perhaps 
his  father  would  give  him  a  sum  of  money  and  let  him 
go  to  fend  for  himself;  that  he  might  help  him  even  to  a 
situation  somewhere;  and  now  hope  had  died  so  utterly  that 
he  did  not  even  dare  speak  of  it.  And  he  had  said  "  No  " 
to  Anthony;  he  said  to  himself  at  least  that  he  had  meant 
"  No,"  in  spite  of  his  hesitation.  All  doors  seemed  closing, 
save  that  which  terrified  him.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  thought  in  my  mind "  he  began;  and 

stopped,  for  the  terror  of  what  was  on  his  tongue  grew 
suddenly  upon  him. 

"Eh?" 

Robin  stood  up. 

"  I  must  have  time,  sir,"  he  cried ;  "  I  must  have  time. 
Do  not  press  me  too  much." 

His  father's  eyes  shone  bright  and  wrathful.  He  beat  on 
the  table  with  his  open  hand;  but  the  boy  was  too  quick 
for  him. 

"  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  not  to  make  me  speak  too  soon.  It 
may  be  that  you  would  hate  that  I  should  speak  more  than 
my  silence." 

His  whole  person  was  tense  and  magnetic;  his  face  was 
paler  than  ever;  and  it  seemed  as  if  his  father  understood 
enough,  at  least,  to  make  him  hesitate.  The  two  looked 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  117 

at  one  another;  and  it  was  the  man's  eyes  that  fell  first. 
"  You  may  have  till  Pentecost/'  he  said. 


Ill 

It  would  be  at  about  an  hour  before  dawn  that  Robin 
awoke  for  perhaps  the  third  or  fourth  time  that  night;  for 
the  conflict  still  roared  within  his  soul  and  would  give  him 
no  peace.  And,  as  he  lay  there,  awake  in  an  instant,  staring 
up  into  the  dark,  once  more  weighing  and  balancing  this 
and  the  other,  swayed  by  enthusiasm  at  one  moment, 
weighed  down  with  melancholy  the  next — there  came  to 
him,  distinct  and  clear  through  the  still  night,  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs,  perhaps  of  three  or  four  beasts,  walking 
together. 

Now,  whether  it  was  the  ferment  of  his  own  soul,  or  the 
work  of  some  interior  influence,  or  indeed,  the  very  inti- 
mation of  God  Himself,  Robin  never  knew  (though  he  in- 
clined later  to  the  last  of  these)  ;  yet  it  remains  as  a  fact 
that  when  he  heard  that  sound,  so  fierce  was  his  curiosity 
to  know  who  it  was  that  rode  abroad  in  company  at  such 
an  hour,  he  threw  off  the  blankets  that  covered  him,  went 
to  his  window  and  threw  it  open.  Further,  when  he  had 
listened  there  a  second  or  two,  and  had  heard  the  sound 
cease  and  then  break  out  again  clearer  and  nearer,  signify- 
ing that  the  party  was  riding  through  the  village,  his  curi- 
osity grew  so  intense,  that  he  turned  from  the  window, 
snatched  up  and  put  on  a  few  clothes,  groping  for  them  as 
well  as  he  could  in  the  dimness,  and  was  presently  speed- 
ing, barefooted,  downstairs,  telling  himself  in  one  breath 
that  he  was  a  fool,  and  in  the  next  that  he  must  reach  the 
churchyard  wall  before  the  horses  did. 

It  was  but  a  short  run  when  he  had  come  down  into  the 
court,  by  the  little  staircase  that  led  from  the  men's  rooms; 


118  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  ground  was  soaking  with  the  rains  of  yesterday,  but 
he  cared  nothing  for  that;  and,  as  the  riding  party  turned 
up  the  little  ascent  that  led  beneath  the  churchyard,  Robin, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  was  keeping  between  the 
tombstones  to  see,  and  not  be  seen. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  dawn,  at  that  time  when  the 
sky  begins  to  glimmer  with  rifts  above  the  two  horizons, 
showing  light  enough  at  least  to  distinguish  faces.  It  was 
such  a  light  as  that  in  which  he  had  seen  the  deer  looking 
at  him  motionless  as  he  rode  home  with  Dick.  Yet  the 
three  who  now  rode  up  towards  him  were  so  muffled  about 
the  faces  that  he  feared  he  would  not  know  them.  They 
were  men,  all  three  of  them;  and  he  could  make  out  valises 
strapped  to  the  saddle  of  each;  but,  what  seemed  strange, 
they  did  not  speak  as  they  came;  and  it  appeared  as  if 
they  wished  to  make  no  more  noise  than  was  necessary,  since 
one  of  them,  when  his  horse  set  his  foot  upon  the  cobble- 
stones beside  the  lych-gate,  pulled  him  sharply  off  them. 

And  then,  just  as  they  rounded  the  angle  of  the  wall 
where  the  boy  crouched  peeping,  the  man  that  rode  in  the 
middle,  sighed  as  if  with  relief,  and  pulled  the  cloak  that 
was  about  him,  so  that  the  collar  fell  from  his  face,  and  at 
the  same  time  turned  to  his  companion  on  his  right,  and 
said  something  in  a  low  voice. 

But  the  boy  heard  not  a  word;  for  he  found  himself 
staring  at  the  thin-faced  young  priest  from  whom  he  had 
received  Holy  Communion  at  Padley.  It  was  but  for  an 
instant;  for  the  man  to  whom  the  priest  spoke  answered 
in  the  same  low  voice,  and  the  other  pulled  his  cloak  again 
round  his  mouth. 

Yet  the  look  was  enough.  The  sight,  once  more,  of  this 
servant  of  God,  setting  out  again  upon  his  perilous  travels — • 
seen  at  such  a  moment,  when  the  boy's  judgment  hung  in 
the  balance  (as  he  thought) ;  this  one  single  reminder  of 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  119 

what  a  priest  could  do  in  these  days  of  sorrow,  and  of  what 
God  called  on  him  to  do — the  vision,  for  it  was  scarcely 
less,  all  things  considered,  of  a  life  such  as  this — presented, 
so  to  say,  in  this  single  scene  of  a  furtive  and  secret  ride 
before  the  dawn,  leaving  Padley  soon  after  midnight — this, 
falling  on  a  soul  that  already  leaned  that  way,  finished  that 
for  which  Marjorie  had  prayed,  and  against  which  the  lad 
himself  had  fought  so  fiercely. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  stood  by  his  father's  bed,  looking 
down  on  him  without  fear. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  as  the  old  man  stared  up  at  him 
through  sleep-ridden  eyes,  "  I  have  come  to  give  you  my 
answer.  It  is  that  I  must  go  to  Rheims  and  be  a  priest." 

Then  he  turned  again  and  went  out  of  the  room,  without 
waiting. 


CHAPTER  IX 


MRS.  MANNERS  was  still  abed  when  her  daughter  came 
in  to  see  her.  She  lay  in  the  great  chamber  that  gave 
upon  the  gallery  above  the  hall  whence,  on  either  side, 
she  could  hear  whether  or  no  the  maids  were  at  their 
business — which  was  a  comfort  to  her  if  a  discomfort  to 
them.  And  now  that  her  lord  was  in  Derby,  she  lay  here 
all  alone. 

The  first  that  she  knew  of  her  daughter's  coming  was  a 
light  in  her  eyes ;  and  the  next  was  a  face,  as  of  a  stranger, 
looking  at  her  with  great  eyes,  exalted  by  joy  and  pain. 
The  light,  held  below,  cast  shadows  upwards  from  chin 
and  cheek,  and  the  eyes  shone  in  hollows.  Then,  as  she 
sat  up,  she  saw  that  it  was  her  daughter,  and  that  the  maid 
held  a  paper  in  her  hands;  she  was  in  her  night-linen,  and 
a  wrap  lay  over  her  shoulders  and  shrouded  her  hair. 

"  He  is  to  be  a  priest,"  she  whispered  sharply.  "  Thank 
our  Lord  with  me  ...  and  .  .  .  and  God  have  mercy  on 
me!  " 

Then  Marjorie  was  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  sobbing 
so  that  the  curtains'  shook. 

The  mother  got  it  all  out  of  her  presently — the  tale  of 
the  girl's  heart  torn  two  ways  at  once.  On  the  one  side 
there  was  her  human  love  for  the  lad  who  had  wooed  her — 
as  hot  as  fire,  and  as  pure — and  on  the  other  that  keen 
romance  that  had  made  her  pray  that  he  might  be  a  priest. 
This  second  desire  had  come  to  her,  as  sharp  as  a  voice 
that  calls,  when  she  had  heard  of  the  apostasy  of  his 

120 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  121 

father;  it  had  seemed  to  her  the  riposte  that  God  made  to 
the  assault  upon  His  honour.  The  father  would  no  longer 
be  His  worshipper?  Then  let  the  son  be  His  priest;  and 
so  the  balance  be  restored.  And  so  the  maid  had  striven 
with  the  two  loves  that,  for  once,  would  not  agree  together 
(as  did  the  man  in  the  Gospels  who  wished  to  go  and  bury 
his  father  and  afterwards  to  follow  his  Saviour)  ;  she  had 
not  dared  to  say  a  word  to  the  lad  of  anything  of  this  lest 
it  should  be  her  will  and  not  God's  that  should  govern  him, 
for  she  knew  very  well  what  a  power  she  had  over  him; 
but  she  had  prayed  God,  and  begged  Robin  to  pray  too 
and  to  listen  to  His  voice;  and  now  she  had  her  way,  and 
her  heart  was  broken  with  it,  she  said: 

"  And  when  I  think,"  siie  wailed  across  her  mother's 
knees,  "  of  what  it  is  to  be  a  priest;  and  of  the  life  that  he 
will  lead,  and  of  the  death  that  he  may  die !  .  .  .  And  it  is 
I  ...  I  ...  who  will  have  sent  him  to  it.  Mother !  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Manners  was  bethinking  herself  of  a  cordial  just 
then,  and  how  she  knew  old  Ann  would  be  coming  pres- 
ently, and  was  listening  with  but  half  an  ear. 

"  It's  not  you,  my  dear,"  she  said,  patting  the  head  be- 
neath her  hands.  (The  wrap  was  fallen  off,  and  the  maid's 
long  hair  was  all  over  her  shoulders.)  "  And  now " 

"  But  our  Lord  will  take  care  of  him,  will  He  not? 
And  not  suffer " 

Mrs.  Manners  fell  to  patting  her  head  again. 

"  And  who  brought  the  message  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Manners  was  one  of  those  experienced  persons  who 
are  fully  persuaded  that  youth  is  a  disease  that  must  be 
borne  with  patiently.  Time,  indeed,  will  cure  it;  yet  until 
the  cure  is  complete,  elders  must  bear  it  as  well  as  they  can 
and  not  seem  to  pay  too  much  attention  to  it.  A  rigorous 
and  prudent  diet;  long  hours  of  sleep,  plenty  of  occupation 


122  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

— these  are  the  remedies  for  the  fever.  So,  while  Marjorie 
first  began  to  read  the  lad's  letter,  and  then,  breaking  down 
altogether,  thrust  it  into  her  mother's  hand,  Mrs.  Manners 
was  searching  her  memory  as  to  whether  any  imprudence 
the  day  before,  in  food  or  behaviour,  could  be  the  cause  of 
this  crisis.  Love  between  boys  and  girls  was  common 
enough;  she  herself  twenty  years  ago  had  suffered  from 
the  sickness  when  young  John  had  come  wooing  her;  yet 
a  love  that  could  thrust  from  it  that  which  it  loved,  was 
beyond  her  altogether.  Either  Marjorie  loved  the  lad,  or 
she  did  not,  and  if  she  loved  him,  why  did  she  pray  that 
he  might  be  a  priest?  That  was  foolishness;  since  priest- 
hood was  a  bar  to  marriage.  She  began  to  conclude  that 
Marjorie  did  not  love  him;  it  had  been  but  a  romantic 
fancy;  and  she  was  encouraged  by  the  thought. 

"  Madge,"  she  began,  when  she  had  read  through  the 
confused  line  or  two,  in  the  half-boyish,  half-clerkly  hand 
of  Robin,  scribbled  and  dispatched  by  the  hands  of  Dick 
scarcely  two  hours  ago.  "  Madge "' 

She  was  about  to  say  pomething  sensible  when  the  maid 
interrupted  her  again. 

"  And  it  is  I  who  have  brought  it  all  on  him !  "  she 
wailed.  "  If  it  had  not  been  for  me " 

Her  mother  laid  a  firm  hand  on  her  daughter's  mouth. 
It  was  not  often  that  she  felt  the  superior  of  the  two;  yet 
here  was  a  time,  plain  enough,  when  maturity  and  experi- 
ence must  take  the  reins. 

"  Madge,"  she  said,  "  it  is  plain  you  do  not  love  him ; 
or  you  never " 

The  maid  started  back,  her  eyes  ablaze. 

"  Not  love  him!    Why " 

"  That  you  do  not  love  him  truly ;  or  you  would  never 
have  wished  this  for  him.  .  .  -  Now  listen  to  me !  " 

She   raised   an   admonitory   ^nger,   complacent   at   last. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  123 

But  her  speech  was  not  to  be  made  at  that  time;  for  her 
daughter  swiftly  rose  to  her  feet,  controlled  at  last  by  the 
shock  of  astonishment. 

"  Then  I  do  not  think  you  know  what  love  is,"  she  said 
softly.  "  To  love  is  to  wish  the  other's  highest  good,  as  I 
understand  it." 

Mrs.  Manners  compressed  her  lips,  as  might  a  proph- 
etess before  a  prediction.  But  her  daughter  was  before- 
hand with  her  again. 

"  That  is  the  love  of  a  Christian,  at  least,"  she  said. 
Then  she  stooped,  took  the  letter  from  her  mother's  knees, 
and  went  out. 

Mrs.  Manners  sat  for  a  moment  as  her  daughter  left  her. 
Then  she  understood  that  her  hour  of  superiority  was  gone 
with  Marjorie's  hour  of  weakness;  and  she  emitted  a  short 
laugh  as  she  took  her  place  again  behind  the  child  she 
had  borne. 

II 

It  was  a  strange  time  that  Marjorie  had  until  two  days 
later,  when  Robin  came  and  told  her  all,  and  how  it  had 
fallen  out.  For  now,  it  seemed,  she  walked  on  air;  now 
in  shoes  of  lead.  When  she  was  at  her  prayers  (which  was 
pretty  often  just  now),  and  at  other  times,  when  the  air 
lightened  suddenly  about  her  and  the  burdens  of  earth  were 
lifted  as  if  another  hand  were  put  to  them — at  those  times 
which  every  interior  soul  experiences  in  a  period  of  stress — 
why,  then,  all  was  glory,  and  she  saw  Robin  as  transfigured 
and  herself  beneath  him  all  but  adoring.  Little  visions 
came  and  went  before  her  imagination.  Robin  riding,  like 
some  knight  on  an  adventure,  to  do  Christ's  work;  Robin 
at  the  altar,  in  his  vestments ;  Robin  absolving  penitents — 
all  in  a  rosy  light  of  faith  and  romance.  She  saw  him  even 


124  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

on  the  scaffold,  undaunted  and  resolute,  with  God's  light 
on  his  face,  and  the  crowd  awed  beneath  him;  she  saw 
his  soul  entering  heaven,  with  all  the  harps  ringing  to  meet 
him,  and  eternity  begun.  .  .  .  And  then,  at  other  times, 
when  the  heaviness  came  down  on  her,  as  clouds  upon  the 
Derbyshire  hills,  she  understood  nothing  but  that  she  had 
lost  him :  that  he  was  not  to  be  hers,  but  Another's ;  that  a 
loveless  and  empty  life  lay  before  her,  and  a  womanhood 
that  was  without  its  fruition.  And  it  was  this  latter  mood 
that  fell  on  her,  swift  and  entire,  when,  looking  out  from 
her  window  a  little  before  dinner-time,  she  saw  suddenly 
his  hat,  and  Cecily's  head,  jerking  up  the  steep  path  that 
led  to  the  house. 

She  fell  on  her  knees  by  her  bedside. 

"  Jesu !  "  she  cried.  "  Jesu !  Give  me  strength  to  meet 
him." 

Mrs.  Manners,  too,  hearing  the  horse's  footsteps  on 
the  pavement  a  minute  later,  and  Marjorie's  steps  going 
downstairs,  also  looked  forth  and  saw  him  dismounting. 
She  was  a  prudent  woman,  and  did  not  stir  a  finger  till 
she  heard  the  bell  ringing  in  the  court  for  the  dinner  to  be 
served.  They  would  have  time,  so  she  thought,  to  arrange 
their  attitudes. 

And,  indeed,  she  was  right:  for  it  was  two  quiet  enough 
persons  who  met  her  as  she  came  down  into  the  hall :  Robin 
flushed  with  riding,  yet  wholly  under  his  own  command — 
bright-eyed,  and  resolute  and  natural  (indeed,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  he  was  more  of  a  man  than  she  had  thought 
him).  And  her  daughter,  too,  was  still  and  strong;  a 
trifle  paler  than  she  should  be,  yet  that  was  to  be  expected. 
At  dinner,  of  course,  nothing  could  be  spoken  of  but  the 
most  ordinary  affairs — in  such  speaking,  that  is,  as  there 
was.  It  was  not  till  they  had  gone  out  into  the  walled 


COME  RACK.'     COME  ROPE!  125 

garden  and  sat  them  down,  all  three  of  them,  on  the  long 
garden-seat   beside   the   rose-beds,  that   a   word   was   said 
on  these  new  matters.     There  was  silence  as  they  walked 
there,  and  silence  as  they  sat  down. 
"  Tell  her,  Robin,"  said  the  maid. 

It  appeared  that  matters  were  not  yet  as  wholly  decided 
«s  Mrs.  Manners  had  thought.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  they  were  not  decided  at  all.  Robin  had  written  to 
Dr.  Allen,  and  had  found  means  to  convey  his  letter  to  Mr. 
Simpson,  who,  in  his  turn,  had  undertaken  to  forward  it 
at  least  as  far  as  to  London;  and  there  it  would  await  a 
messenger  to  Douay.  It  might  be  a  month  before  it  would 
reach  Douay,  and  it  might  be  three  or  four  months,  or  even 
more,  before  an  answer  could  come  back.  Next,  the  squire 
had  taken  a  course  of  action  which,  plainly,  had  discon- 
certed the  lad,  though  it  had  its  conveniences  too.  For, 
instead  of  increasing  the  old  man's  fury,  the  news  his  son 
had  given  him  had  had  a  contrary  effect.  He  had  seemed 
all  shaken,  said  Robin ;  he  had  spoken  to  him  quietly,  hold- 
ing in  the  anger  that  surely  must  be  there,  the  boy 
thought,  without  difficulty.  And  the  upshot  of  it  was  that 
no  more  had  been  said  as  to  Robin's  leaving  Matstead  for 
the  present — not  one  word  even  about  the  fines.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  the  old  man  had  been  trying  how  far  he  could 
push  his  son,  and  had  recoiled  when  he  had  learned  the 
effect  of  his  pushing. 

"  I  think  he  is  frightened,"  said  the  lad  gravely.  "  He 
had  never  thought  that  I  could  be  a  priest." 

Mrs.  Manners  considered  this  in  silence. 

"  And  it  may  be  autumn  before  Dr.  Allen's  letter  comes 
back  ?  "  she  asked  presently. 

Robin  said  that  that  was  so. 

"  It  may  even  be  till  winter,"  he  said.     "  The  talk  among 


126  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  priests,  Mr.  Simpson  tells  me,  is  all  about  the  removal 
from  Douay.  It  may  be  made  at  any  time,  and  who  knows 
where  they  will  go  ?  " 

Mrs.  Manners  glanced  across  at  her  daughter,  who  sat 
motionless,  with  her  hands  clasped.  Then  she  was  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  reasonableness  and  sense:  all  this  tragic 
to-do  about  what  might  never  happen  seemed  to  her  the 
height  of  folly. 

"  Nay,  then,"  she  burst  out,  "  then  nothing  may  happen 
after  all.  Dr.  Allen  may  say  '  No ;'  the  letter  may  never 
get  to  him.  It  may  be  that  you  will  forget  all  this  in  a 
month  or  two." 

Robin  turned  his  face  slowly  towards  her,  and  she 
saw  that  she  had  spoken  at  random.  Again,  too,  it  struck 
her  attention  that  his  manner  seemed  a  little  changed. 
It  was  graver  than  that  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 

"  I  shall  not  forget  it,"  he  said  softly.  "  And  Dr.  Allen 
will  get  the  letter.  Or,  if  not  he,  someone  else." 

There  was  silence  again,  but  Mrs.  Manners  heard  her 
daughter  draw  a  long  breath. 

Ill 

It  was  an  hour  later  that  Marjorie  found  herself  able  to 
say  that  which  she  knew  must  be  said. 

Robin  had  lingered  on,  talking  of  this  and  that,  though 
he  had  said  half  a  dozen  times  that  he  must  be  getting 
homewards;  and  at  last,  when  he  rose,  Mistress  Manners, 
who  was  still  wholly  misconceiving  the  situation,  after  the 
manner  of  sensible  middle-aged  folk,  archly  and  tactfully 
took  her  leave  and  disappeared  down  towards  the  house, 
advancing  some  domestic  reason  for  her  departure. 

Robin  sighed,  and  turned  to  the  girl,  who  still  sat  quiet 
But  as  he  turned  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  swiftly. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  127 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Robin,"  she  said. 

He  pulled  himself  up. 

"You  understand,  do  you  not?"  she  said.  "You  arr 
to  be  a  priest.  You  must  remember  that  always.  You 
aiv  a  sort  of  student  already." 

She  could  see  him  pale  a  little;  his  lips  tightened. 
For  a  moment  he  said  nothing;  he  was  taken  wholly 
aback. 

"  Then  I  am  not  to  come  here  again?  " 

Marjorie  stood  up.  She  showed  no  sign  of  the  fierce 
self-control  she  was  using. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said.  "  Come  as  you  would  come  to 
any  Catholic  neighbours.  But  no  more  than  that.  .  .  . 
You  are  to  be  a  priest." 

The  spring  air  was  full  of  softness  and  sweetness  as  they 
stood  there.  On  the  trees  behind  them  and  on  the  roses 
in  front  the  budding  leaves  had  burst  into  delicate  green, 
and  the  copses  on  all  sides  sounded  with  the  twitter- 
ing of  birds.  The  whole  world,  it  seemed,  was  kindling 
with  love  and  freshness.  Yet  these  two  had  to  stand  here 
and  be  cold,  one  to  the  other.  .  .  .  He  was  to  be  a  priest; 
that  must  not  be  forgotten,  and  they  must  meet  no  more 
on  the  old  footing.  That  was  gone.  Already  he  stood 
among  the  Levites,  at  least  in  intention;  and  the  Lord 
alone  was  to  be  the  portion  of  his  inheritance  and  his 
Cup. 

It  was  a  minute  before  either  of  them  moved,  and  during 
that  minute  the  maid  felt  her  courage  ebb  from  her  like  an 
outgoing  tide,  leaving  a  desolation  behind.  It  was  all  that 
she  could  do  not  to  cry  out. 

But  when  at  last  Robin  made  a  movement  and  she  had 
to  look  him  in  the  face,  what  she  saw  there  braced  and 
strengthened  her. 


128  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  You  are  right,  Mistress  Marjorie,"  he  said  both  gravely 
and  kindly.  "  I  will  bid  you  good-day  and  be  getting  to 
my  horse." 

He  kissed  her  gently,  as  the  manner  was,  and  went  down 
the  path  alone. 


PART 


CHAPTER  I 


IT  was  with  a  sudden  leap  of  her  heart  that  Marjorie, 
looking  out  of  her  window  at  the  late  autumn  landscape, 
her  mind  still  running  on  the  sheet  of  paper  that  lay 
before  her,  saw  a  capped  head,  and  then  a  horse's  crest, 
rise  over  the  broken  edge  of  land  up  which  Robin  had 
ridden  so  often  two  and  three  years  ago.  Then  she  saw 
who  was  the  rider,  and  laid  her  pen  down  again. 

It  was  two  years  since  the  lad  had  gone  to  Rheims,  and 
it  would  be  five  years  more,  she  knew  (since  he  was  not  over 
quick  at  his  books),  before  he  would  return  a  priest.  She 
had  letters  from  him:  one  would  come  now  and  again, 
a  month  or  two  sometimes  after  the  date  of  writing.  It 
was  only  in  September  that  she  had  had  the  letter  which 
he  had  written  her  on  hearing  of  her  father's  death,  and 
Mr.  Manners  had  died  in  June.  She  had  written  back  to 
him  then,  a  discreet  and  modest  letter  enough,  telling  him 
of  how  Mr.  Simpson  had  read  mass  over  the  body  before 
it  was  taken  down  to  Derby  for  the  burying;  and  telling 
him,  too,  of  her  mother's  rheumatics  that  kept  her  abed 
now  three  parts  of  the  year.  For  the  rest,  the  letters  were 
dull  enough  reading  to  one  who  did  not  understand  them: 
the  news  the  lad  had  to  give  was  of  a  kind  that  must  be 
disguised,  lest  the  letters  should  fall  into  other  hands,  since 
it  concerned  the  coming  and  going  of  priests  whose  names 
must  not  appear.  Yet,  for  all  that,  the  letters  were  laid 
up  in  a  press,  and  the  heap  grew  slowly. 

It  was  Mr.  Anthony  Babington  who  was  come  now  to 

131 


132  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

see  her,  and  it  was  his  third  visit  since  the  summer.  But 
she  knew  well  enough  what  he  was  come  for,  since  his 
young  wife,  whom  he  had  married  last  year,  was  no  use 
to  him  in  such  matters:  she  had  lately  had  a  child,  too, 
and  lived  quietly  at  Dethick  with  her  women.  His  letters, 
too,  would  come  at  intervals,  carried  by  a  rider,  or  some- 
times some  farmer's  man  on  his  way  home  from  Derby,  and 
these  letters,  too,  held  dull  reading  enough  for  such  as 
were  not  in  the  secret.  Yet  the  magistrates'  at  Derby 
would  have  given  a  good  sum  if  they  could  have  inter- 
cepted and  understood  them. 

It  was  in  the  upper  parlour  now  that  she  received  him. 
A  fire  was  burning  there,  as  it  had  burned  so  long  ago, 
when  Robin  found  her  fresh  from  her  linen,  and  Anthony 
sat  down  in  the  same  place.  She  sat  by  the  window,  with 
the  paper  in  her  hands  at  which  she  had  been  writing  when 
she  first  saw  him. 

He  had  news  for  her,  of  two  kinds,  and,  like  a  man, 
gave  her  first  that  which  she  least  wished  to  hear.  (She 
had  first  showed  him  the  paper.) 

"  That  was  the  very  matter  I  was  come  about,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  only  a  few  of  the  names,  I  see.  Now  the  rest 
will  be  over  before  Christmas,  and  will  all  be  in  London 
together." 

"  Can  you  not  give  me  the  names  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  could  give  you  the  names,  certainly.  And  I  will  do 
so  before  I  leave;  I  have  them  here.  But — Mistress  Mar- 
jorie,  could  you  not  come  to  London  with  me?  It  would 
ease  the  case  very  much." 

"  Why,  I  could  not,"  she  said.  "  My  mother And 

what  good  would  it  serve  ?  " 

"  This  is  how  the  matter  stands,"  said  Anthony,  crossing 
his  legs.  "  We  have  a  dozen  priests  coming  all  together — 
at  least,  they  will  not  travel  together,  of  course;  but  they 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  133 

will  all  reach  London  before  Christmas,  and  there  they  will 
hold  counsel  as  to  who  shall  go  to  the  districts.  Eight 
of  them,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  come  to  the  north.  There 
are  as  many  priests  in  the  south  as  are  safe  at  the  present 
time — or  as  are  needed.  Now  if  you  were  to  come  with  me, 
mistress — with  a  serving-maid,  and  my  sister  would  be 
with  us — we  could  meet  these  priests,  and  speak  with  them, 
and  make  their  acquaintance.  That  would  remove  a  great 
deal  of  danger.  We  must  not  have  that  affair  again  which 
fell  out  last  month." 

Mar j one  nodded  slowly.  (It  was  wonderful  how  her 
gravity  had  grown  on  her  these  last  two  years.) 

She  knew  well  enough  what  he  meant.  It  was  the  affair 
of  the  clerk  who  had  come  from  Derby  on  a  matter  con- 
nected with  her  father's  will  about  the  time  she  was  looking 
for  the  arrival  of  a  strange  priest,  and  who  had  been  so  mis- 
taken by  her.  Fortunately  he  had  been  a  well-disposed 
man,  with  Catholic  sympathies,  or  grave  trouble  might  have 
followed.  But  this  proposal  of  a  visit  to  London  seemed 
to  her  impossible.  She  had  never  been  to  London  in  her 
life;  it  appeared  to  her  as  might  a  voyage  to  the  moon. 
Derby  seemed  oppressingly  large  and  noisy  and  danger- 
ous; and  Derby,  she  understood,  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  village  compared  to  London. 

"  I  could  not  do  it,"  she  said  presently.  "  I  could  not 
leave  my  mother." 

Anthony  explained  further. 

It  was  evident  that  Booth's1  Edge  was  becoming  more 
nnd  more  a  harbour  for  priests,  owing  largely  to  Mistress 
Marjorie's  courage  and  piety.  It  was  well  placed;  it  was 
remote;  and  it  had  so  far  avoided  all  suspicion.  Padley 
certainly  served  for  many,  but  Padley  was  nearer  the  main 
road ;  and  besides,  had  fallen  under  the  misfortune  of  losing 
its  master  for  the  very  crime  of  recusancy.  It  seemed  to 


134  COME  RACK^.     COME  ROPE! 

be  all  important,  therefore,  that  the  ruling  mistress  of 
Booth's  Edge,  since  there  was  no  master,  should  meet  as 
many  priests  as  possible,  in  order  that  she  might  both 
know  and  be  known  by  them;  and  here  was  such  an  oppor- 
tunity as  would  not  easily  occur  again.  Here  were  a  dozen 
priests,  all  to  be  together  at  one  time;  and  of  these,  at 
least  two-thirds  would  be  soon  in  the  north.  How  conve- 
nient, therefore,  it  would  be  if  their  future  hostess  could 
but  meet  them,  learn  their  plans,  and  perhaps  aid  them 
by  her  counsel. 

But  she  shook  her  head  resolutely. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  said. 

Anthony  made  a  little  gesture  of  resignation.  But,  in~ 
deed,  he  had  scarcely  hoped  to  persuade  her.  He  knew 
it  was  a  formidable  thing  to  ask  of  a  countrybred  maid. 

"  Then  we  must  do  as  well  as  we  can,"  he  said.  "  In 
any  case,  I  must  go.  There  is  a  priest  I  have  to  meet  in 
any  case;  he  is  returning  as  soon  as  he  has  bestowed  the 
rest." 

"Yes?" 

"  His  name  is  Ballard.  He  is  known  as  Fortescue,  and 
passes  himself  off  as  a  captain.  You  would  never  know 
him  for  a  priest." 

"  He  is  returning,  you  say  ?  " 

A  shade  of  embarrassment  passed  over  the  young  man's 
face,  and  Marjorie  saw  that  there  was  something  behind 
which  she  was  not  to  know. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  business  with  him.  He  is  not 
to  come  over  on  the  mission  yet,  but  only  to  bring  the  others 
and  see  them  safe " 

He  broke  off  suddenly. 

"  Why,  I  was  forgetting,"  he  cried.  "  Our  Robin  is 
coming  too.  I  had  a  letter  from  him,  and  another  for  you." 

He  searched  in  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  did  not  see 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  135 

the  sudden  rigidity  that  fell  on  the  girl.  For  a  moment 
she  sat  perfectly  still;  her  heart  had  leapt  to  her  throat, 
it  seemed,  and  was  hammering  there.  .  .  .  But  by  the 
time  he  had  found  the  letter  she  was  herself  again. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said. 

She  took  it;  but  made  no  movement  to  open  it. 

"  But  he  is  not  to  be  a  priest  for  five  years  yet?  "  she 
said  quietly. 

"  No;  but  they  send  them  sometimes  as  servants  and 
such  like,  to  make  a  party  seem  what  it  is  not,  as  well  as  to 
learn  how  to  avoid  her  Grace's  servants'.  He  will  go  back 
with  Mr.  Ballard,  I  think,  after  three  or  four  weeks.  You 
have  had  letters  from  him,  you  told  me  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  Yes ;  but  he  said  nothing  of  it,  but  only  how  much  he 
longed  to  see  England  again." 

"  He  could  not.  It  has  only  just  been  arranged.  He 
has  asked  to  go." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment.  But  Anthony  did 
not  understand  what  it  meant.  He  had  known  nothing  of 
the  affair  of  his  friend  and  this  girl,  and  he  looked  upon 
them  merely  as  a  pair  of  acquaintances,  above  all,  when 
he  had  heard  of  Robin's  determination  to  go  to  Rheims. 
Even  the  girl  saw  that  he  knew  nothing,  in  spite  of  her 
embarrassment,  and  the  thought  that  had  come  to  her  when 
she  had  heard  of  Robin's  coming  to  London  grew  on  her 
every  moment.  But  she  thought  she  must  gain  time. 

She  stood  up. 

"You  would  like  to  see  his  letters?"  she  asked.  "I 
Will  bring  them." 

And  she  slipped  out  of  the  room. 


136  COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE! 

II 

Anthony  Babington  sat  still,  staring  up  at  Icarus  in  the 
the  chariot  of  the  Sun,  with  something  of  a  moody  look  on 
his  face. 

It  was  true  that  he  was  sincere  and  active  enough  in  all 
that  he  did  up  here  in  the  north  for  the  priests  of  his 
faith;  indeed,  he  risked  both  property  and  liberty  on  their 
behalf,  and  was  willing  to  continue  doing  so  as  long  as 
these  were  left  to  him.  But  it  seemed  to  him  sometimes 
that  too  much  was?  done  by  spiritual  ways  and  too  little  by 
temporal.  Certainly  the  priesthood  and  the  mass  were 
instruments — and,  indeed,  the  highest  instruments  in  God's 
hand ;  it  was  necessary  to  pray  and  receive  the  sacraments, 
and  to  run  every  risk  in  life  for  these  purposes.  Yet  it  ap- 
peared to  him  that  the  highest  instruments  were  not  always 
the  best  for  such  rough  work. 

It  was  now  over  two  years  ago  since  the  thought  had  first 
come  to  him,  and  since  that  time  he  had  spared  no  effort 
to  shape  a  certain  other  weapon,  which,  he  thought,  would 
do  the  business  straight  and  clean.  Yet  how  difficult  it 
had  been  to  raise  any  feeling  on  the  point.  At  first  he 
had  spoken  almost  freely  to  this  or  that  Catholic  whom  he 
could  trust;  he  had  endeavoured  to  win  even  Robin;  and 
yet,  with  hardly  an  exception,  all  had  drawn  back  and 
bidden  him  be  content  with  a  spiritual  warfare.  One  priest, 
indeed,  had  gone  so  far  as  to  tell  him  that  he  was  on  dan- 
gerous ground  .  .  .  and  the  one  and  single  man  who  up 
to  the  present  had  seemed  on  his  side,  was  the  very  man, 
Mr.  Ballard,  then  a  layman,  whom  he  had  met  by  chance 
in  London,  and  who  had  been  the  occasion  of  first  suggest- 
ing any  such  idea.  It  was,  in  fact,  for  the  sake  of  meet- 
ing Ballard  again  that  he  was  going  to  London ;  and,  he 
had  almost  thought  from  his  friend's  last  letter,  it  had 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  137 

seemed  that  it  was  for  the  sake  of  meeting  him  that  Mr. 
Ballard  was  coming  across  once  more. 

So  the  young  man  sat,  with  that  moody  look  on  his  face, 
until  Marjorie  came  back,  wondering  what  news  he  would 
have  from  Mr.  Ballard,  and  whether  the  plan,  at  present 
only  half  conceived,  was  to  go  forward  or  be  dropped. 
He  was  willing  enough,  as  has  been  said,  to  work  for 
priests,  and  he  had  been  perfectly  sincere  in  his  begging 
Marjorie  to  come  with  him  for  that  very  purpose;  but 
there  was  another  work  which  he  thought  still  more  ur- 
gent. .  .  .  However,  that  was  not  to  be  Marjorie's 
affair.  ...  It  was  work  for  men  only. 

"  Here  they  are,"  she  said,  holding  out  the  packet. 

He  took  them  and  thanked  her. 

"  I  may  read  them  at  my  leisure?  I  may  take  them  with 
me?  " 

She  had  not  meant  that,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it  now. 

"  Why,  yes,  if  you  wish,"  she  said.  "  Stay ;  let  me  show 
you  which  they  are.  You  may  not  wish  to  take  them  all." 

The  letters  that  the  two  looked  over  together  in  that 
wainscoted  parlour  at  Booth's  Edge  lie  now  in  an  iron 
case  in  a  certain  muniment-room.  They  are  yellow  now, 
and  the  ink  is  faded  to  a  pale  dusky  red;  and  they  must 
not  be  roughly  unfolded  lest  they  should  crack  at  the 
creases.  But  they  were  fresh  then,  written  on  stout  white 
paper,  each  occupying  one  side  of  a  sheet  that  was  then 
folded  three  or  four  times,  sealed,  and  inscribed  to  "  Mis- 
tress Marjorie  Manners  "  in  the  middle,  with  the  word 
"  Haste  "  in  the  lower  corner.  The  lines  of  writing  run 
close  together,  and  the  flourishes  on  one  line  interweave 
now  and  again  with  the  tails  on  the  next. 

The  first  was  written  within  a  week  of  Robin's  coming 


138  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

to  Rheims,  and  told  the  tale  of  the  sailing,  the  long  rides 
that  followed  it,  the  pleasure  the  writer  found  at  coming 
to  a  Catholic  country,  and  something  of  his  adventures 
upon  his  arrival  with  his  little  party.  But  names  and 
places  were  scrupulously  omitted.  Dr.  Allen  was  de- 
scribed as  "  my  host " ;  and,  in  more  than  one  instance, 
the  name  of  a  town  was  inscribed  with  a  line  drawn  beneath 
it  to  indicate  that  this  was  a  kind  of  alias. 

The  second  letter  gave  some  account  of  the  life  lived  in 
Rheims — was  a  real  boy's  letter — and  this  was  more 
difficult  to  treat  with  discretion.  It  related  that  studies 
occupied  a  certain  part  of  the  day;  that  "prayers"  were 
held  at  such  and  such  times,  and  that  the  sports  consisted 
chiefly  of  a  game  called  "  Cat." 

So  with  the  eight  or  nine  that  followed.  The  third  and 
fourth  were  bolder,  and  spoke  of  certain  definitely  Catholic 
practices — of  prayers  for  the  conversion  of  England, 
and  of  mass  said  on  certain  days  for  the  same  intention. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  writer  had  grown  confident  in  his  place 
of  security.  But  later,  again,  his  caution  returned  to  him, 
and  he  spoke  in  terms  so  veiled  that  even  Marjorie  could 
scarcely  understand  him.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  the  letters, 
if  they  had  fallen  into  hostile  hands,  would  have  done  no 
irreparable  injury;  they  would  only  have  indicated  that  a 
Catholic  living  abroad,  in  some  unnamed  university  or  col- 
lege, was  writing  an  account  of  his  life  to  a  Catholic  named 
Mistress  Marjorie  Manners,  living  in  England. 

When  the  girl  had  finished  her  explaining,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  there  was  no  longer  any  need  for  Anthony  to 
take  them  with  him.  He  said  so. 

"  Ah !  but  take  them,  if  you  will,"  cried  the  girl. 

"  It  would  be  better  not.  You  have  them  safe  here. 
And " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  139 

Marjorie  flushed.  She  felt  that  her  ruse  had  been  too 
plain. 

"  I  would  sooner  you  took  them,"  she  said.  "  You  can 
read  them  at  your  leisure." 

So  he  accepted,  and  slipped  them  into  his  breast  with 
what  seemed  to  the  girl  a  lamentable  carelessness.  Then 
he  stood  up. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "  And  I  have  never  asked  after 
Mistress  Manners." 

"  She  is  abed,"  said  the  girl.  "  She  has  been  there  this 
past  month  now." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door,  for  it  was  not  until  then 
that  she  was  courageous  enough  to  speak  as  she  had  de- 
termined. 

"  Mr.   Babington,"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  turned. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  while  we  talked,"  she  said. 
"  You  think  my  coming  to  London  would  be  of  real 
service  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  It  would  be  good  for  you  to  meet  these 
priests  before  they " 

"  Then  I  will  come,  if  my  mother  gives  me  leave.  When 
will  you  go?  " 

"  We  should  be  riding  in  not  less  than  a  week  from  now. 
But,  mistress " 

"No,  I  have  thought  of  it.  I  will  come — if  my  mother 
gives  me  leave." 

He  nodded  briskly  and  brightly.  He  loved  courage,  and 
he  understood  that  this  decision  of  hers  had  required 
courage. 

"  Then  my  sister  shall  come  for  you,  and " 

"  No,  Mr.  Babington,  there  is  no  need.  We  shall  start 
from  Derby  ?  " 

"Why,  yes." 


140  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  Then  my  maid  and  I  will  ride  down  there  and  sleep  at 
the  inn,  and  be  ready  for  you  on  the  day  that  you  appoint." 


When  he  Yas  gone  at  last  she  went  back  again  to  the 
parlour,  and  sat  without  moving  and  without  seeing.  She 
was  in  an  agony  lest,  she  had  been  unmaidenly  in  deter- 
mining to  go  so  soon  as  she  heard  that  Robin  was  to  be 
there. 


CHAPTER  II 


ANTHONY  lifted  his  whip  and  pointed. 
"  London,"  he  said. 
Marjorie  nodded;  she  was  too  tired  to  speak. 

The  journey  had  taken  them  some  ten  days,  by  easy 
stages;  each  night  they  had  slept  at  an  inn,  except  once, 
when  they  stayed  with  friends  of  the  Babingtons  and  had 
heard  mass.  They  had  had  the  small  and  usual  adven- 
tures :  a  horse  had  fallen  lame ;  a  baggage-horse  had  bolted ; 
they  had  passed  two  or  three  hunting-parties;  they  had 
been  stared  at  in  villages  and  saluted,  and  stared  at  and 
not  saluted.  Rain  had  fallen ;  the  clouds  had  cleared  again ; 
and  the  clouds  had  gathered  once  more  and  rain  had  again 
fallen.  The  sun,  morning  by  morning,  had  stood  on  the 
left,  and  evening  by  evening  gone  down  again  on  the  right. 

They  were  a  small  party  for  so  long  a  journey — the 
three  with  four  servants — two  men  and  two  maids:  tha 
men  had  ridden  armed,  as  the  custom  was;  one  rode  in 
front,  then  came  the  two  ladies  with  Anthony;  then  the 
two  maids,  and  behind  them  the  second  man.  In  towns 
and  villages  they  closed  up  together  lest  they  should  be 
separated,  and  then  spread  out  once  more  as  the  long, 
straight  track  lengthened  before  them.  Anthony  and  the 
two  men-servants  carried  each  a  case  of  dags  or  pistols 
at  the  saddle-bow,  for  fear  of  highwaymen.  But  none 
had  troubled  them. 

A  strange  dreamlike  mood  had  come  down  on  Marjorie. 
At  times  it  seemed  to  her  in  her  fatigue  as  if  she  had  done 

141 


142  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

nothing  all  her  life  but  ride;  at  times,  as  she  sat  rocking, 
she  was  living  still  at  home,  sitting  in  the  parlour,  watch- 
ing her  mother;  the  illusion  was  so  clear  and  continuous 
that  its  departure,  when  her  horse  stumbled  or  a  com- 
panion spoke,  was  as  an  awaking  from  a  dream.  At  other 
times  she  looked  about  her;  talked;  asked  questions. 

She  found  Mistress  Alice  Babington  a  pleasant  friend, 
some  ten  years  older  than  herself,  who  knew  London  well, 
and  had  plenty  to  tell  her.  She  was  a  fair  woman,  well 
built  and  active;  very  fond  of  her  brother,  whom  she 
treated  almost  as  a  mother  treats  a  son ;  but  she  seemed 
not  to  be  in  his  confidence,  and  even  not  to  wish  to  be;  she 
thought  more  of  his  comfort  than  of  his  ideals.  She  was 
a  Catholic,  of  course,  but  of  the  quiet,  assured  kind,  and 
seemed  unable  to  believe  that  anyone  could  seriously  be 
anything  else;  she  seemed  completely  confident  that  the 
present  distress  was  a  passing  one,  and  that  when  politics 
had  run  their  course,  it  would  presently  disappear.  Mar- 
jorie  found  her  as  comfortable  as  a  pillow,  when  she  was  low 
enough  to  rest  on  her.  .  .  . 

Though  Marjorie  had  nodded  only  when  the  spires  of 
London  shone  up  suddenly  in  the  evening  light,  a  sharp 
internal  interest  awakened  in  her.  It  was  as  astonishing 
as  a  miracle  that  the  end  should  be  in  sight;  the  past  ten 
days  had  made  it  seem  to  her  as  if  all  things  which  she 
desired  must  eternally  recede.  .  .  .  She  touched  her  horse 
unconsciously,  and  stared  out  between  his  ears,  sitting  up- 
right and  alert  again. 

It  was  not  a  great  deal  that  met  the  eye,  but  it  was  so 
disposed  as  to  suggest  a  great  deal  more.  Far  away  to  the 
right  lay  a  faint  haze,  and  in  it  appeared  towers  and  spires, 
with  gleams  of  sharp  white  here  and  there,  where  some  tall 
building  rose  above  the  dark  roofs.  To  the  left  again 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  143 

appeared  similar  signs  of  another  town — the  same  haze, 
towers  and  spires — linked  to  the  first.  She  knew  what 
they  were ;  she  had  heard  half  a  dozen  times  already  of  the 
two  towns  that  made  London — running  continuously  in  one 
long  line,  however,  which  grew  thin  by  St.  Mary's  Hospital 
and  St.  Martin's,  she  was  told — the  two  troops  of  houses 
and  churches  that  had  grown  up  about  the  two  centres  of 
Court  and  City,  Westminster  and  the  City  itself.  But  it 
was  none  the  less  startling  to  see  these  with  her  proper 
eyes. 

Presently,  in  spite  of  herself,  as  she  saw  the  spire  of  St. 
Clement's  Dane,  where  she  was  told  they  must  turn  City- 
wards, she  began  to  talk,  and  Anthony  to  answer. 

II 

Dark  was  beginning  to  fall  and  the  lamps  to  be  lighted  as 
they  rode  in  at  last  half  an  hour  later,  across  the  Fleet 
Ditch,  through  Ludgate  and  turned  up  towards  Cheapside. 
They  were  to  stay  at  an  inn  where  Anthony  was  accus- 
tomed to  lodge  when  he  was  not  with  friends — an  inn, 
too,  of  which  the  landlord  was  in  sympathy  with  the  old 
ways,  and  where  friends  could  come  and  go  without  suspi- 
cion. It  was  here,  perhaps,  that  letters  would  be  waiting 
for  them  from  Rheims. 

Marjorie  had  known  Derby  only  among  the  greater 
towns,  and  neither  this  nor  the  towns  where  she  had  stayed, 
night  by  night,  during  the  journey,  had  prepared  her  in 
the  least  for  the  amazing  rush  and  splendour  of  the  City 
itself.  A  fine,  cold  rain  was  falling,  and  this,  she  was  told, 
had  driven  half  the  inhabitants  within  doors;  but  even  so, 
it  appeared  to  her  that  London  was  far  beyond  her 
imaginings.  Beneath  here,  in  the  deep  and  narrow  chan- 
nel of  houses  up  which  they  rode,  narrowed  yet  further 


144  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

by  the  rows  of  stalls  that  were  ranged  along  the  pathways 
on  either  side,  the  lamps  were  kindling  swiftly,  in  windows 
as  well  as  in  the  street;  here  and  there  hung  great  flaring 
torches,  and  the  vast  eaves  and  walls  overhead  shone  in 
the  light  of  the  fires  where  the  rich  gilding  threw  it  back. 
Beyond  them  again,  solemn  and  towering,  leaned  over  the 
enormous  roofs;  and  everywhere,  it  seemed  to  her  fresh 
from  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  country,  countless  hun- 
dreds of  moving  faces  were  turned  up  to  her,  from  door- 
ways and  windows,  as  well  as  from  the  groups  that  Eurried 
along  under  the  shelter  of  the  walls;  and  the  air  was  full 
of  talking  and  laughter  and  footsteps.  It  meant  nothing 
to  her  at  present,  except  inextricable  confusion:  the  gleam 
of  arms  as  a  patrol  passed  by;  the  important  little  group 
making  its  way  with  torches;  the  dogs  that  scuffled  in  the 
roadway;  the  party  of  apprentices  singing  together  loudly, 
with  linked  arms,  plunging  up  a  side  street;  the  hooded 
women  chattering  together  with  gestures  beneath  a  low- 
hung  roof;  the  calling,  from  side  to  side  of  the  twisting 
street;  the  bargaining  of  the  sellers  at  the  stalls — all  this, 
with  the  rattle  of  their  own  horses'  feet  and  the  jingling 
of  the  bits,  combined  only  to  make  a  noisy  and  brilliant 
spectacle  without  sense  or  signification. 

Mistress  Alice  glanced  at  her,  smiling. 

"  You  are  tired,"  she  said ;  "  we  are  nearly  there.  That 
is  St.  Paul's  on  the  right." 

Ah!  that  gave  her  peace.  .  .  . 

They  were  turning  off  from  the  main  street  just  as  her 
friend  spoke;  but  she  had  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what 
appeared  at  first  sight  a  mere  gulf  of  darkness,  and  then, 
as  they  turned,  resolved  itself  into  a  vast  and  solemn  pile, 
grey-lined  against  black.  Lights  burned  far  across  the  wide 
churchyard,  as  well  as  in  the  windows  of  the  high  houses 
that  crowned  the  wall,  and  figures  moved  against  the  glow, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  145 

tiny  as  dolls.  .  .  .  Then  she  remembered  again:  how  God 
had  once  been  worshipped  there  indeed,  in  the  great  house 
built  to  His  honour,  but  was  no  longer  so  worshipped.  Or, 
if  it  were  the  same  God,  as  some  claimed,  at  least  the 
character  of  Him  was  very  differently  conceived.  .  .  . 

The  "  Red  Bull  "  again  increased  her  sense  of  rest;  since 
all  inns  are  alike.  A  curved  archway  opened  on  the  narrow 
street;  and  beneath  this  they  rode,  to  find  themselves  in 
a  paved  court,  already  lighted,  surrounded  by  window- 
pierced  walls,  and  high  galleries  to  right  and  left.  The 
stamping  of  horses  from  the  further  end;  and,  almost  im- 
mediately, the  appearance  of  a  couple  of  hostlers,  showed 
where  the  stables  lay.  Beside  it  she  could  see  through  the 
door  of  the  brightly-lit  bake-house. 

She  was  terribly  stiff,  as  she  found  when  she  limped  up 
the  three  or  four  stairs  that  led  up  to  the  door  of  the  living- 
part  of  the  inn;  and  she  was  glad  enough  to  sit  down  in 
a  wide,  low  parlour  with  her  friend  as  Mr.  Babington  went 
in  search  of  the  host.  The  room  was  lighted  only  by  a  fire 
leaping  in  the  chimney;  and  she  could  make  out  little, 
except  that  pieces  of  stuff  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  a  long 
row  of  metal  vessels  and  plates  were  ranged  in  a  rack  be- 
tween the  windows. 

"  It  is  a  quiet  inn,"  said  Alice.  Marjorie  nodded  again. 
She  was  too  tired  to  speak;  and  almost  immediately  An- 
thony came  back,  with  a  tall,  clean-shaven,  middle-aged 
man,  in  an  apron,  following  behind. 

"  It  is  all  well,"  he  said.  "  We  can  have  our  rooms 
and  the  parlour  complete.  These  are  the  ladies,"  he  added. 

The  landlord  bowed  a  little,  with  a  dignity  beyond  that 
of  his  dress. 

"  Supper  shall  be  served  immediately,  madam,"  he  said, 
with  a  tactful  impartiality  towards  them  both. 


146  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

They  were  indeed  very  pleasant  rooms;  and,  as  Anthony 
had  described  them  to  her,  were  situated  towards  the  back 
of  the  long,  low  house,  on  the  first  floor,  with  a  private  stair- 
case leading  straight  up  from  the  yard  to  the  parlour  itself. 
The  sleeping-rooms,  too,  opened  upon  the  parlour;  that 
which  the  two  ladies  were  to  occupy  was  furthest  from 
the  yard,  for  quietness'  sake;  that  in  which  Anthony  and 
his  man  would  sleep,  upon  the  other  side.  The  windows 
of  all  three  looked  straight  out  upon  a  little  walled  garden 
that  appeared  to  be  the  property  of  some  other  house.  The 
rooms  were  plainly  furnished,  but  had  a  sort  of  dignity 
about  them,  especially  in  the  carved  woodwork  about  the 
doors  and  windows.  There  was  a  fireplace  in  the  parlour, 
plainly  a  recent  addition;  and  a  maid  rose  from  kindling 
the  logs  and  turf,  as  the  two  ladies  came  back  after  wash- 
ing and  changing. 

A  table  was  already  laid,  lit  by  a  couple  of  candles:  it 
was  laid  with  fine  napery,  and  the  cutlery  was  clean  and 
solid.  Marjorie  looked  round  the  room  once  more;  and, 
as  she  sat  down,  Anthony  came  in,  still  in  his  mud-splashed 
dress,  carrying  three  or  four  letters  in  his  hands. 

"  News,"  he  said.  ..."  I  will  be  with  you  immedi- 
ately," and  vanished  into  his  room. 

The  sense  of  home  was  deepening  on  Marjorie  every 
moment.  This  room  in  which  she  sat,  might,  with  a  little 
fancy,  be  thought  to  resemble  the  hall  at  Booth's  Edge.  It 
was  not  so  high,  indeed;  but  the  plain  solidity  of  the  walls 
and  woodwork,  the  aspect  of  the  supper-table,  and  the  quiet, 
so  refreshing  after  the  noises1  of  the  day,  and,  above  all, 
after  the  din  of  their  mile-long  ride  through  the  City — 
these  little  things,  together  with  the  knowledge  that  the 
journey  was  done  at  last,  and  that  her  old  friend  Robin 
was,  if  not  already  come,  at  least  soon  to  arrive — these 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  147 

little  things  helped  to  soothe  and  reassure  her.  She  won- 
dered how  her  mother  found  herself.  .  .  . 

When  Anthony  came  back,  the  supper  was  all  laid  out. 
He  had  given  orders  that  no  waiting  was  to  be  done; 
his  own  servants  would  do  what  was  necessary.  He  had  a 
bright  and  interested  face,  Marjorie  thought;  and  the  in- 
stant they  were  sat  down,  she  knew  the  reason  of  it. 

"  We  are  just  in  time,"  he  said.  "  These  letters  have 
been  lying  here  for  me  the  last  week.  They  will  be  here, 
they  tell  me,  by  to-morrow  night.  But  that  is  not  all " 

He  glanced  round  the  dusky  room;  then  he  laid  down 
the  knife  with  which  he  was  carving;  and  spoke  in  a  yet 
lower  voice. 

"  Father  Campion  is  in  the  house,"  he  said. 

His  sister  started. 

"  In  the  house?  .  .  .  Do  you  mean " 

He  nodded  mysteriously,  as  he  took  up  the  knife  again. 

"  He  has  been  here  three  or  four  days.  The  rooms  are 
full  in  the  ...  in  the  usual  place.  And  I  have  spoken 
with  him ;  he  is  coming  here  after  supper.  He  had  already 
supped." 

Marjorie  leaned  back  in  her  chair;  but  she  said  nothing. 
From  beneath  in  the  house  came  the  sound  of  singing, 
from  the  tavern  parlour  where  boys  were  performing 
madrigals. 

It  seemed  to  her  incredible  that  she  should  presently  be 
speaking  with  the  man,  whose  name  was  already  affecting 
England  as  perhaps  no  priest's  name  had  ever  affected  it. 
He  had  been  in  England,  she  knew,  comparatively  a  short 
time;  yet  in  that  time,  his  name  had  run  like  fire  from 
mouth  to  mouth.  To  the  minds  of  Protestants  there  was 
something  almost  diabolical  about  the  man;  he  was  here, 
he  was  there,  he  was  everywhere,  and  yet,  when  the  search 
was  up,  he  was  nowhere.  Tales  were  told  of  his  eloquence 


148  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

that  increased  the  impression  that  he  made  a  thousand- 
fold; it  was  said  that  he  could  wile  birds  off  their  branches 
and  the  beasts  from  their  lairs;  and  this  eloquence,  it  was 
known,  could  be  heard  only  by  initiates,  in  far-off  country 
houses,  or  in  quiet,  unsuspected  places  in  the  cities.  He 
preached  in  some  shrouded  and  locked  room  in  London  one 
day;  and  the  next,  thirty  miles  off,  in  a  cow-shed  to  rustics. 
And  his  learning  and  his  subtlety  were  equal  to  his  elo- 
quence: her  Grace  had  heard  him  at  Oxford  years  ago, 
before  his  conversion;  and,  it  was  said,  would  refuse  him 
nothing,  even  now,  if  he  would  but  be  reasonable  in  his 
religion;  even  Canterbury,  it  was  reported,  might  be  his. 
And  if  he  would  not  be  reasonable — then,  as  was  fully  in 
accordance  with  what  was  known  of  her  Grace,  nothing 
was  too  bad  for  him. 

Such  feeling  then,  on  the  part  of  Protestants,  found  its 
fellow  in  that  of  the  Catholics.  He  was  their  champion, 
as  no  other  man  could  be.  Had  he  not  issued  his  famous 
"  challenge  "  to  any  and  all  of  the  Protestant  divines,  to 
meet  them  in  any  argument  on  religion  that  they  cared  to 
select,  in  any  place  and  at  any  time,  if  only  his  own  safe- 
conduct  were  secure?  And  was  it  not  notorious  that  none 
would  meet  him?  He  was,  indeed,  a  fire,  a  smoke  in  the 
nostrils  of  his  adversaries,  a  flame  in  the  hearts  of  his 
friends.  Everywhere  he  ranged,  he  and  his  comrade, 
Father  Persons,  sometimes  in  company,  sometimes  apart; 
and  wherever  they  went  the  Faith  blazed  up  anew  from  its 
dying  embers,  in  the  lives  of  rustic  knave  and  squire. 

And  she  was  to  see  him! 

"  He  is  here  for  four  or  five  days  only,"  went  on  Anthony 
presently,  still  in  a  low,  cautious  voice.  "  The  hunt  is  very 
hot,  they  say.  Not  even  the  host  knows  who  he  is ;  or,  at 
least,  makes  that  he  does  not.  He  is  under  another  name, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  149 

of  course;  it  is  Mr.  Edmonds,  this  time.  He  was  in  Essex, 
he  tells  me;  but  comes  to  the  wolves'  den  for  safety.  It 
is  safer,  he  says,  to  sit  secure  in  the  midst  of  the  trap,  than 
to  wander  about  its  doors;  for  when  the  doors  are  opened 
he  can  run  out  again,  if  no  one  knows  he  is  there.  .  .  ." 


Ill 

When  supper  was  finished  at  last,  and  the  maids  had 
borne  away  the  dishes,  there  came  almost  immediately  a 
tap  upon  the  door;  and  before  any  could  answer,  there 
walked  in  a  man,  smiling. 

He  was  of  middle-size,  dressed  in  a  dark,  gentleman's 
suit,  carrying  his1  feathered  hat  in  his  hand,  with  his  sword. 
He  appeared  far  younger  than  Marjorie  had  expected — 
scarcely  more  than  thirty  years  old,  of  a  dark  and  yet  clear 
complexion,  large-eyed,  with  a  look  of  humour ;  his  hair  was 
long  and  brushed  back;  and  a  soft,  pointed  beard  and 
moustache  covered  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  He  moved 
briskly  and  assuredly,  as  one  wholly  at  his  ease. 

"  I  am  come  to  the  right  room  ?  "  he  said.  "  That  is  as 
well." 

His  voice,  too,  had  a  ring  of  gaiety  in  it;  it  was  low, 
quite  clear  and  very  sympathetic;  and  his  manners,  as 
Marjorie  observed,  were  those  of  a  cultivated  gentleman, 
without  even  a  trace  of  the  priest.  She  would  not  have 
been  astonished  if  she  had  been  told  that  the  man  was  of 
the  court,  or  some  great  personage  of  the  country.  There 
was  no  trace  of  furtive  hurry  or  of  alarm  about  him;  he 
moved  deftly  and  confidently;  and  when  he  sat  down,  after 
the  proper  greetings,  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  so 
that  he  could  nurse  his  foot.  It  seemed  more  incredible 
even  than  she  had  thought,  that  this  was  Father  Campion ! 

"  You  have  pleasant  rooms  here,  and  music  to  cheer  you, 


150  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

too/'  he  said.  "  I  understand  that  you  are  often  here,  Mr. 
Babington." 

Anthony  explained  that  he  found  them  convenient  and 
very  secure. 

"  Roberts  is  a  prudent  landlord/'  he  said. 

Father  Campion  nodded. 

"  He  knows  his  own  business,  which  is  what  few  land- 
lords do,  in  these  degenerate  days;  and  he  knows  nothing 
at  all  of  his  guests'.  In  that  he  is  even  more  of  an  ex- 
ception." 

His  eyes  twinkled  delightfully  at  the  ladies. 

"  And  so,"  he  said,  "  God  blesses  him  in  those  who  use 
his  house." 

They  talked  for  a  few  minutes  in  this  manner.  Father 
Campion  spoke  of  the  high  duty  that  lay  on  all  country 
ladies  to  make  themselves  acquainted  with  the  sights  of 
the  town;  and  spoke  of  three  or  four  of  these.  Her  Grace, 
of  course,  must  be  seen;  that  was  the  greatest  sight  of  all. 
They  must  make  an  opportunity  for  that;  and  there  would 
surely  be  no  difficulty,  since  her  Grace  liked  nothing  better 
than  to  be  looked  at.  And  they  must  go  up  the  river  by 
water,  if  the  weather  allowed,  from  the  Tower  to  West- 
minster; not  from  Westminster  to  the  Tower,  since  that 
was  the  way  that  traitors  came,  and  no  good  Catholic  could, 
even  in  appearance,  be  a  traitor.  And,  if  they  pleased, 
he  would  himself  be  their  guide  for  a  part  of  their  adven- 
tures. He  was  to  lie  hid,  he  told  them;  and  he  knew  no 
better  way  to  do  that  than  to  flaunt  as  boldly  as  possible 
in  the  open  ways. 

"  If  I  lay  in  my  room,"  said  he,  "  with  a  bolt  drawn, 
I  would  soon  have  some  busy  fellow  knocking  on  the  door 
to  know  what  I  did  there.  But  if  I  could  but  dine  with 
her  Grace,  or  take  an  hour  with  Mr.  Topcliffe,  I  should 
be  secure  for  ever." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  151 

Mar j one  glanced  shyly  towards  Alice,  as  if  to  ask  a 
question.  (She  was  listening,  it  seemed  to  her,  with  every 
nerve  in  her  tired  body.)  The  priest  saw  the  glance. 

"  Mr.  Topcliffe,  madam?  Well;  let  us  say  he  is  a  dear 
friend  of  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  has,  I  think, 
lodgings  there  just  now.  And  he  is  even  a  friend  of 
Catholics,  too — to  such,  at  least,  as  desire  a  heavenly 
crown." 

"  He  is  an  informer  and  a  tormentor !  "  broke  in  An- 
thony harshly. 

"  Well,  sir ;  let  us  say  that  he  is  very  loyal  to  the  letter 
of  the  law;  and  that  he  presides  over  our  Protestant  bed 
«f  Procrustes." 

"  The "  began  Marjorie,  emboldened  by  the  kind- 
ness of  the  priest's  voice. 

"  The  bed  of  Procrustes,  madam,  was  a  bed  to  which  all 
who  lay  upon  it  had  to  be  conformed.  Those  that  were  too 
long  were  made  short;  and  those  that  were  too  short  were 
made  long.  It  is  a  pleasant  classical  name  for  the  rack." 

Marjorie  caught  her  breath.  But  Father  Campion  went 
on  smoothly. 

"  We  shall  have  a  clear  day  to-morrow,  I  think,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  are  at  liberty,  sir,  and  these  ladies  are  not  too 
wearied — I  have  a  little  business  in  Westminster;  and " 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Anthony,  "  for  to-morrow  night  we 
expect  friends.  From  Rheims,  sir." 

The  priest  dropped  his  foot  and  leaned  forward. 

"  From  Rheims  ?  "  he  said  sharply. 

The  other  nodded. 

"  Eight  or  ten  at  least  will  arrive.  Not  all  are  priests. 
One  is  a  friend  of  our  own  from  Derbyshire,  who  will  not 
be  made  priest  for  five  years  yet." 

"  I  had  not  heard  they  were  to  come  so  soon,"  said 
Father  Campion.  "  And  what  a  company  of  them !  " 


152  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  There  are  a  few  of  them  who  have  been  here  before. 
Mr.  Ballard  is  one  of  them." 

The  priest  was  silent  an  instant. 

"  Mr.  Ballard/'  he  said.  "  Ballard !  Yes ;  he  has  been 
here  before.  He  travels  as  Captain  Fortescue,  does  he  not  ? 
You  are  a  friend  of  his  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Father  Campion  made  as  if  he  would  speak;  but  inter- 
rupted himself  and  was  silent;  and  it  seemed  to  Marjorie 
as  if  another  mood  was  fallen  on  him.  And  presently  they 
were  talking  again  of  London  and  its  sights. 

IV 

In  spite  of  her  weariness,  Marjorie  could  not  sleep  for 
an  hour  or  two  after  she  had  gone  to  bed.  It  was  an  ex- 
traordinary experience  to  her  to  have  fallen  in,  on  the  very 
night  of  her  coming  to  London,  with  the  one  man  whose 
name  stood  to  her  for  all  that  was  gallant  in  her  faith.  As 
she  lay  there,  listening  to  the  steady  breathing  of  Alice, 
who  knew  no  such  tremors  of  romance,  to  the  occasional 
stamp  of  a  horse  across  the  yard,  and,  once  or  twice,  to 
Voices  and  footsteps  passing  on  some  paved  way  between 
the  houses,  she  rehearsed  again  and  again  to  herself  the 
tales  she  had  heard  of  him. 

New  and  again  she  thought  of  Robin.  She  wondered 
whether  he,  too,  one  day  (and  not  of  necessity  a  far- 
distant  day,  since  promotion  came  quickly  in  this  war  of 
faith),  would  occupy  some  post  like  that  which  this  man 
held  so  gaily  and  so  courageously;  and  for  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  she  understood  not  in  vision  merely,  but  in  sober 
thought,  what  the  life  of  a  priest  in  those  days  signified. 
Certainly  she  had  met  man  after  man  before — she  had  en- 
tertained them  often  enough  in  her  mother's  place,  and 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  153 

had  provided  by  her  own  wits  for  their  security — men  who 
went  in  peril  of  liberty  and  even  of  life;  but  here,  within 
the  walls  of  London,  in  this  "  wolves'  den "  as  Father 
Campion  had  called  it,  where  men  brushed  against  one 
another  continually,  and  looked  into  a  thousand  faces  a 
day,  where  patrols  went  noisily  with  lights  and  weapons, 
where  the  great  Tower  stood,  where  her  Grace,  the  mis- 
tress of  the  wolves,  had  her  dwelling — here,  peril  assumed 
another  aspect,  and  pain  and  death  another  reality,  from 
that  which  they  presented  on  the  wind-swept  hills  and 
the  secret  valleys  of  the  country  from  which  they 
came.  .  .  .  And  it  was  with  Father  Campion  himself,  in 
his  very  flesh,  that  she  had  talked  this  evening — it  was 
Father  Campion  who  had  given  her  that  swift,  kindly  look 
of  commendation,  as  Mr.  Babington  had  spoken  of  her 
reason  for  coming  to  London,  and  of  her  hospitality  to  wan- 
dering priests — Father  Campion,  the  Angel  of  the  Church, 
was  in  England.  And  to-morrow  Robin,  too,  would  be 
here. 

Then,  as  sleep  began  to  come  down  on  her  tired  and  ex- 
cited brain,  and  to  form,  as  so  often  under  such  conditions, 
little  visible  images,  even  before  the  reason  itself  is  lulled, 
there  began  to  pass  before  her,  first  tiny  and  delicate  pic- 
tures of  what  she  had  seen  to-day — the  low  hills  to  the 
north  of  London,  dull  and  dark  below  the  heavy  sky,  but 
light  immediately  above  the  horizon  as  the  sun  sank  down; 
the  appearance  of  her  horse's  ears — those  ears  and  that  tuft 
of  wayward  mane  between  them  of  which  she  had  grown 
so  weary ;  the  lighted  walls  of  the  London  streets ;  the  mon- 
strous shadows  of  the  eaves;  the  flare  of  lights;  the  mov- 
ing figures — these  came  first;  and  then  faces — Father 
Campion's,  smiling,  with  white  teeth  and  narrowed  eyes, 
bright  against  the  dark  chimney-breast;  Alice's  serene 


154  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

features,  framed  in  flaxen  hair;  and  then,  as  sleep  had  all 
but  conquered  her,  the  imagination  sent  up  one  last  idea, 
and  a  face  came  into  being  before  her,  so  formless  yet  so 
full,  so  sinister,  so  fierce  and  so  distorted,  that  she  drew  a 
sudden  breath  and  sat  up,  trembling.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Why  had  they  spoken  to  her  of  Topcliffe?  .  *  t 


CHAPTER  III 


IT  was  a  soft  winter's  morning  as  the  party  came  dowii 
the  little  slope  towards  the  entrance-gate  of  the  Tower  next 
day.  The  rain  last  night  had  cleared  the  air,  and  the  sun 
shone  as  through  thin  veils  of  haze,  kindly  and  sweet.  The 
river  on  the  right  was  at  high  tide,  and  up  from  the  water's 
edge  came  the  cries  of  the  boatmen,  pleasant  and  invigor- 
ating. 

The  sense  of  unreality  was  deeper  than  ever  on  Mar- 
jorie's  mind.  One  incredible  thing  after  another,  known 
to  her  only  in  the  past  by  rumour  and  description,  and 
imagined  in  a  frame  of  glory,  was  taking  shape  before  her 
eyes.  .  .  .  She  was  in  London ;  she  had  slept  in  Cheapside ; 
she  had  talked  with  Father  Campion ;  he  was  with  her  now ; 
this  was  the  Tower  of  London  that  lay  before  her,  a  mon- 
strous huddle  of  grey  towers  and  battlemented  walls  along 
which  passed  the  scarlet  of  a  livery  and  the  gleam  of 
arms. 

All  the  way  that  they  had  walked,  her  eyes  had  been 
about  her  everywhere — the  eyes  of  a  startled  child,  through 
which  looked  the  soul  of  a  woman.  She  had  seen  the 
folks  go  past  like  actors  in  a  drama — London  merchants, 
apprentices,  a  party  of  soldiers,  a  group  on  horseback:  she 
had  seen  a  congregation  pour  out  of  the  doors  of  some 
church  whose  name  she  had  asked  and  had  forgotten  again; 
the  cobbled  patches  of  street  had  been  a  marvel  to  her; 
the  endless  roofs,  the  white  and  black  walls,  the  leaning 
windows,  the  galleries  where  heads  moved ;  the  vast  wharfs ; 
the  crowding  masts,  resembling  a  stripped  forest;  the 

15P 


156  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE: 

rolling-gaited  sailors ;  and,  above  all,  the  steady  murmur  of 
voices  and  footsteps,  never  ceasing,  beyond  which  the  crow- 
ing of  cocks  and  the  barking  of  dogs  sounded  far  off  and 
apart — these  things  combined  to  make  a  kind  of  miracle 
that  all  at  once  delighted,  oppressed  and  bewildered  her. 

Here  and  there  some  personage  had  been  pointed  out  to 
her  by  the  trim,  merry  gentleman  who  walked  by  her  side 
with  his  sword  swinging.  (Anthony  went  with  his  sister 
just  behind,  as  they  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowded 
streets,  and  the  two  men-servants  followed.)  She  saw  a 
couple  of  City  dignitaries  in  their  furs,  with  stavesmen  to 
clear  their  road ;  a  little  troop  of  the  Queen's  horse,  blazing 
with  colour,  under  the  command  of  a  young  officer  who 
might  have  come  straight  from  Romance.  But  she  was 
more  absorbed — or,  rather,  she  returned  every  instant  to  the 
man  who  walked  beside  her  with  such  an  air  and  talked  so 
loudly  and  cheerfully.  Certainly,  it  seemed  to  her,  his 
disguise  was  perfect,  and  himself  the  best  part  of  it.  She 
compared  him  in  her  mind  with  a  couple  of  ministers, 
splendid  and  awful  in  their  gowns  and  ruffs,  whom  they  had 
met  turning  into  one  of  the  churches  just  now,  and  smiled 
at  the  comparison;  and  yet  perhaps  these  were  preachers 
too,  and  eloquent  in  their  own  fashion. 

And  now,  here  was  the  Tower — the  end  of  all  things,  so 
far  as  London  was  concerned.  Beyond  it  she  saw  the  wide 
rolling  hills,  the  bright  reaches  of  the  river,  and  the  sparkle 
of  Placentia,  far  away. 

"  Her  Grace  is  at  Westminster  these  days,"  exclaimed  the 
priest ;  "  she  is  moving  to  Hampton  Court  in  a  day  or  two ; 
so  I  doubt  not  we  shall  be  able  to  go  in  and  see  a  little. 
We  shall  see,  at  least,  the  outside  of  the  Paradise  where 
so  many  holy  ones  have  lived  and  died.  There  are  three 
or  four  of  them  here  now;  but  the  most  of  them  are  in 
the  Fleet  or  the  Marshalsea." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  157 

Marjorie  glanced  at  him.     She  did  not  understand. 

"  I  mean  Catholic  prisoners,  mistress.  There  are  several 
of  them  in  ward  here,  but  we  had  better  speak  no  names." 

He  wheeled  suddenly  as  they  came  out  into  the  open 
and  moved  to  the  left. 

"  There  is  Tower  Hill,  mistress ;  where  my  lord  Cardinal 
Fisher  died,  and  Thomas  More." 

Marjorie  stopped  short.  But  there  was  nothing  great 
to  see — only  a  rising  ground,  empty  and  bare,  with  a  few 
trimmed  trees ;  the  ground  was  without  grass ;  a  few  cobbled 
paths  crossed  this  way  and  that. 

"  And  here  is  the  gateway,"  he  said,  "  whence  they  come 
out  to  glory.  .  .  .  And  there  on  the  right "  (he  swept  his 
arm  towards  the  river)  "  you  may  see,  if  you  are  fortunate, 
other  criminals  called  pirates,  hung  there  till  they  be  cov- 
ered by  three  tides." 

Still  standing  there,  with  Mr.  Babington  and  his  sister 
aorne  up  from  behind,  he  began  to  relate  the  names  of  this 
tower  and  of  that,  in  the  great  tumbled  mass  of  buildings 
surmounted  by  the  high  keep.  But  Marjorie  paid  no  great 
Attention  except  with  an  effort:  she  was  brooding  rather 
0n  the  amazing  significance  of  all  that  she  saw.  It  was 
under  this  gateway  that  the  martyrs  came;  it  was  from 
those  windows  in  that  tower  which  the  priest  had  named 
just  now,  that  they  had  looked.  .  .  .  And  this  was  Father 
Campion.  She  turned  and  watched  him  as  he  talked.  He 
was  dressed  as  he  had  been  dressed  last  night,  but  with  a 
small  cloak  thrown  over  his  shoulders;  he  gesticulated 
treely  and  easily,  pointing  out  this  and  that ;  now  and  again 
his  eyes  met  hers,  and  there  was  nothing  but  a  grave  merri- 
ment in  them.  .  .  .  Only  once  or  twice  his  voice  softened, 
as  he  spoke  of  those  great  ones  that  had  shown  Catholics 
how  both  to  die  and  live. 


158  COME  BACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  with  your  permission  I  will  gu 
and  speak  to  the  guard,  and  see  if  we  may  have  entrance." 

It  was  almost  with  terror  that  she  saw  him  go — a  soli- 
tary man,  with  a  price  on  his  head,  straight  up  to  those 
whose  business  it  was  to  catch  him — armed  men,  as  she 
could  see — she  could  even  see  the  quilted  jacks  they  wore 
— who,  it  may  be,  had  talked  of  him  in  the  guard-room  only 
last  night.  But  his  air  was  so  assured  and  so  magnificent 
that  even  she  began  to  understand  how  complete  such  a 
disguise  might  be;  and  she  watched  him  speaking  with  the 
officer  with  a  touch  even  of  his  own  humour  in  her  heart. 
Indeed,  there  was  some  truth  in  the  charge  of  Jesuitry, 
after  all! 

Then  the  figure  turned  and  beckoned,  and  they  went 
forward. 

II 

A  certain  horror,  in  spite  of  herself  and  her  company, 
fell  on  her  as  she  passed  beneath  the  solid  stone  vaulting, 
passed  along  beneath  the  towering  wall,  turned  up  from 
the  water-gate,  and  came  out  into  the  wide  court  round 
which  the  Lieutenant's  lodgings,  the  little  church,  and  the 
enormous  White  Tower  itself  are  grouped.  There  was  a 
space,  not  enclosed  in  any  way,  but  situated  within  a  web 
of  paths,  not  far  from  the  church,  that  caught  her  atten- 
tion. She  stood  looking  at  it. 

"  Yes,  mistress,"  said  the  priest  behind  her.  "  That  is 
the  place  of  execution  for  those  who  die  within  the  Tower — 
those  usually  of  royal  blood.  My  Lady  Salisbury  died 
there,  and  my  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  others." 

He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm. 

"  You  must  not  look  so  grave,"  he  said,  "  you  must  gape 
You  are  a  country-cousin,  madam," 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  15 

And  she  smiled  in  spite  of  herself,  as  she  met  his  eyew. 

"  Tell  me  everything,"  she  said. 

They  went  together  nearer  to  the  church,  and  faced 
about. 

"  We  can  see  better  from  here,"  he  said. 

Then  he  began. 

First  there  was  the  Lieutenant's  lodging  on  the  right. 
They  must  look  well  at  that.  Interviews  had  taken  place 
there  that  had  made  history.  (He  mentioned  a  few  names.) 
Then,  further  down  on  the  right,  beyond  that  corner  round 
which  they  had  come  just  now,  was  the  famous  water-gate, 
called  "  Traitors'  Gate,"  through  which  passed  those  con- 
victed of  treason  at  Westminster,  or,  at  least,  those  who 
were  under  grave  suspicion.  Such  as  these  came,  of  course, 
by  water,  as  prisoners  on  whose  behalf  a  demonstration 
might  perhaps  be  made  if  they  came  by  land.  So,  at  least, 
he  understood  was  the  reason  of  the  custom. 

"  Her  Grace  herself  once  came  that  way,"  he  said  with  a 
twinkle.  "  Now  she  sends  other  folks  in  her  stead." 

Then  he  pointed  out  more  clearly  the  White  Tower.  It 
was  there  that  the  Council  sat  on  affairs  of  importance. 

"  And  it  is  there "  began  Anthony  harshly. 

The  priest  turned  to  him,  suddenly  grave,  as  if  in  re- 
proof. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  softly.  "  It  is  there  that  the  passion  of 
the  martyrs  begins." 

Marjorie  turned  sharply. 

"  You  mean " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  is  there  that  the  Council  sits  to  ex- 
amine prisoners  both  before  and  after  the  Question.  They 
are  taken  downstairs  to  the  Question,  and  brought  back 
again  after  it.  It  was  there  that " 

He  broke  off, 

"Who  is  this?"  he  said. 


160  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

The  court  had  been  empty  while  they  talked  except  that 
on  the  far  side,  beneath  the  towering  cliff  of  the  keep,  a 
sentry  went  to  and  fro.  But  now  another  man  had  come 
into  view,  walking  up  from  the  way  they  themselves  had 
come;  and  it  would  appear  from  the  direction  he  took  that 
he  would  pass  within  twenty  or  thirty  yards  of  them.  He 
was  a  tall  man,  dressed  in  sad-coloured  clothes,  with  a  felt 
hat  on  his  head  and  the  usual  sword  by  his  side.  He  was 
plainly  something  of  a  personage,  for  he  walked  easily  and 
confidently.  He  was  still  some  distance  off;  but  it  was 
possible  to  make  out  that  he  was  sallowish  in  complexion, 
wore  a  trimmed  beard,  and  had  something  of  a  long  throat. 

Father  Campion  stared  at  him  a  moment,  and,  as  he 
stared,  Marjorie  heard  Mr.  Babington  utter  a  sudden  ex- 
clamation. Then  the  priest,  with  one  quick  glance  at  him, 
murmured  something  which  Marjorie  could  not  hear,  and 
walked  briskly  off  to  meet  the  stranger. 

"  Come,"  said  Anthony  in  a  sharp,  low  voice,  "  we  must 
see  the  church." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  whispered  Mistress  Alice,  with  even  her 
serene  face  a  little  troubled. 

For  the  first  moment,  as  they  walked  towards  the  en- 
trance of  the  church,  Anthony  said  nothing.  Then  as  they 
reached  it,  he  said,  in  a  tone  quite  low  and  yet  full  of 
suppressed  passion  of  some  kind,  a  name  that  Marjorie 
could  not  catch. 

She  turned  before  they  went  in,  and  looked  again. 

The  priest  was  talking  to  the  stranger,  and  was  making 
gestures,  as  if  asking  for  direction. 

"  Who  is  it,  Mr.  Babington  ?  "  she  asked  again  a*  they 
went  in.  "  I  did  not " 

"  Topcliffe,"  said  Anthony. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  161 

III 

The  horror  was  still  on  the  girl,  as  they  went,  an  hour 
later,  up  the  ebbing  tide  towards1  Westminster,  in  a  boat 
rowed  by  a  waterman  and  one  of  their  own  servants.  About 
them  was  a  scene,  of  which  the  very  thought,  a  month  ago, 
would  have  absorbed  and  fascinated  her.  They  had  scarcely 
passed  through  London  Bridge — finding  themselves  just  in 
time  before  the  fall  of  the  water  would  have  hindered 
their  passage,  leaving  out  of  sight  the  grey  sunlit  heap  of 
buildings  from  which  they  had  come.  All  about  them  the 
river  was  gay  with  shipping.  Wherries,  like  clumsy  water- 
beetles,  lurched  along  out  of  the  current,  or  slipped  out 
suddenly  to  make  their  way  across  from  one  stairs  to  an- 
other; a  great  barge,  coming  down-stream,  grew  larger 
every  instant,  its  prow  bright  with  gilding,  and  the  throb 
of  the  twelve  oars  in  the  row-locks  coming  to  them  like  the 
grunting  of  a  beast.  On  either  side  of  the  broad  stream 
rose  the  houses  and  the  churches,  those  on  this  side  visible 
down  to  their  shining  window-panes  in  the  sunlight,  and  the 
very  texture  of  their  tiled  roofs ;  those  on  the  other  a  mere 
huddle  of  countless  walls  and  gables,  in  the  shadow;  and 
between  them  showed  the  leafless  trees,  stretches  of  green 
meadow,  across  which  moved  tiny  figures,  and  the  brown 
flats  of  the  marshes  beyond,  broken  here  and  there  by 
outlying  villages  a  mile  or  two  away.  Behind  them  now 
towered  the  great  buildings  on  London  Bridge — the  chapel, 
the  houses,  the  old  gateway  on  the  south  end,  above  which 
the  impaled  heads  of  traitors  stood  out  against  the  bright 
sky.  It  was  a  tolerable  crop  just  now,  the  priest  had  said, 
bitterly  smiling.  But,  above  all  else,  as  the  boat  moved 
up,  Marjorie  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  far-off  Westminster,  on 
the  grey  towers  and  the  white  walls  where  Elizabeth 
reigned  and  Saint  Edward  slept;  while  within  her  mind, 


162  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

clear  as  a  picture,  she  saw  still  the  empty  court,  as  she 
had  seen  it  when  the  priest  fetched  them  out  again  from 
the  church — empty  at  last  of  the  hateful  presence  which 
he  had  faced  so  confidently. 

"  It  appeared  to  me  best  to  speak  with  him  openly/'  said 
the  priest  quietly,  as  they  had  waited  ten  minutes  later  on 
the  wharf  outside  the  Tower,  while  the  men  ran  to  make 
ready  their  boat.  "  I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  suppose  I 
am  one  of  those  who  better  like  their  danger  in  front  than 
behind.  I  knew  him  at  once;  I  have  had  him  pointed  out 
to  me  two  or  three  times  before.  So  I  looked  him  in  the 
eyes,  and  asked  him  whether  some  ladies  from  the  country 
might  be  permitted  to  see  the  White  Tower,  and  to  whom 
we  had  best  apply.  He  told  me  that  was  not  his  affair,  and 
looked  me  up  and  down  as  he  said  it.  And  then  he  went 
his  way  to  ...  the  White  Tower,  where  I  doubt  not  he 
had  business." 

"  He  said  no  more  ?  "  asked  Anthony. 

"  No,  he  said  no  more.  But  I  shall  know  him  again 
better  next  time,  and  he  me." 

It  seemed  of  evil  omen  to  the  girl  that  she  should  have 
had  such  an  encounter  on  the  day  that  Robin  came  back. 
Like  all  persons  who  dwell  much  in  the  country,  a  world 
that  was  neither  that  of  the  flesh  nor  yet  of  the  spirit 
was  that  in  which  she  largely  moved — a  world  of  strange 
laws,  and  auspices,  and  this  answering  to  this  and  that  to 
that.  It  is  a  state  inconceivable  to  those  who  live  in  the 
noise  and  movement  of  town — who  find  town-life,  that  is, 
the  life  in  which  they  are  most  at  ease.  For  where  men 
have  made  the  earth  that  is  trodden  underfoot,  and  have 
largely  veiled  the  heavens  themselves,  it  is  but  natural  that 
they  should  think  that  they  have  made  everything,  and  that 
it  is  they  who  rule  it. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  163 

As  they  drew  nearer  Westminster  then,  it  was  with 
Marjorie  as  it  had  been  when  they  came  to  the  Tower. 
The  priest  was  busy  pointing  out  this  or  that  building — 
the  Palace  towers,  the  Hall,  the  Abbey  behind,  and  St. 
Margaret's  Church,  as  well  as  the  smaller  buildings  of  the 
Court,  and  the  little  town  that  lay  round  about.  But  she 
listened  as  she  listened  to  the  noise  that  came  from  the 
streets  clear  across  the  water,  attending  to  it,  yet  scarcely 
distinguishing  one  thing  from  another,  and  forgetting  each 
as  soon  as  she  heard  it.  She  was  thinking  all  the  while 
of  Robin,  and  of  the  man  whose  face  she  had  seen,  of  his 
beard  and  his  long  throat.  Well,  at  least,  Robin  was  not 
yet  a  priest.  .  .  . 

The  boat  was  already  nearing  the  King's  Stairs  at 
Westminster,  when  a  new  event  happened  that  for  a  while 
distracted  her. 

The  first  they  saw  of  it  was  the  sight  of  a  number  of 
men  and  women  running  in  a  disorderly  mob,  calling  out 
as  they  ran,  along  the  river-bank  in  the  direction  from 
Charing  Old  Cross  towards  Palace  Yard.  They  appeared 
excited,  but  not  by  fear;  and  it  was  plain  that  something 
was  taking  place  of  which  they  wished  to  have  a  sight. 
As  the  priest  stood  up  in  the  boat  in  order  to  have  a 
clearer  sight  of  what  lay  above  the  bank,  three  or  four 
trumpet-calls  of  a  peculiar  melody,  rang  out  clear  and 
distinct,  echoed  back  by  the  walls  round  about,  plainly 
audible  above  the  rising  noise  of  a  crowd  that,  it  seemed, 
must  be  gathering  out  of  sight.  The  priest  sat  down  again 
and  his  face  was  merry. 

"  You  have  come  on  a  fortunate  day,  mistress,"  he  said 
to  Marjorie.  "  First  Topcliffe,  and  now  her  Grace;  if  w«* 
make  haste  we  may  see  her  pass  by." 

"  Her  Grace  ?  " 


164  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  She  will  be  going  to  dinner  in  Whitehall,  after  having 
taken  the  air  by  the  river.  They  will  be  passing  the  Abbey 
now.  But  she  will  not  be  in  her  supreme  state;  I  am 
sorry  for  that." 

As  they  rowed  in  quickly  over  the  last  hundred  yards  that 
lay  between  them  and  the  stairs,  Marjorie  listened  to  the 
priest  as  he  described  something  of  what  the  "  supreme 
state  "  signified.  He  spoke  of  the  long  lines  of  carriages, 
filled  with  the  ladies  and  the  infirm,  preceded  by  the 
pikemen,  and  the  gentlemen  pensioners  carrying  wands, 
and  the  knights  followed  by  the  heralds.  Behind  these,  he 
said,  came  the  officers  of  State  immediately  before 
the  Queen's  carriage,  and  after  her  the  guards  of  her 
person. 

"  But  this  will  be  but  a  tame  affair,"  he  said.  "  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  a  Progress,  with  the  arches  and  the 
speeches  and  the  declamations,  and  the  heathen  gods  and 
goddesses  that  reign  round  our  Eliza,  when  she  will  go  to 
Ashridge  or  Havering.  I  have  heard  it  said " 

And  then  the  prow  of  the  boat,  turned  deftly  at  the  last 
instant,  grated  along  the  lowest  stair,  and  the  waterman 
was  out  to  steady  his  craft. 

IV 

It  was  the  very  crown  and  summit  of  new  sensation  that 
Marjorie  attained  as  she  stood  in  an  open  gallery  that 
looked  on  to  the  road  from  Westminster  to  Whitehall. 
Father  Campion,  speaking  of  a  "  good  friend  "  of  his  that 
had  his  lodgings  there,  led  them  by  a  short  turning  or  two, 
that  avoided  the  crowd,  straight  to  the  door  of  what  ap- 
peared to  Marjorie  a  mere  warren  of  rooms,  stairs  and 
passages.  A  grave  little  man,  with  a  pen  behind  his  ear, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  165 

ran  out  upon  their  knocking  at  one  of  these  doors,  and 
led  them  straight  through,  smiling  and  talking,  out  into  this 
very  gallery  where  they  now  stood;  and  then  vanished 
again. 

The  gallery  was  such  as  those  which  Marjorie  had  noted 
on  the  way  to  the  Tower;  a  high-hung,  airy  place,  running 
the  length  of  the  house,  contrived  on  the  level  of  the  second 
floor,  with  the  first  floor  roof  beneath  and  overhanging  at- 
tics above.  It  was  supported  on  massive  oak  beams,  and 
protected  from  the  street  by  a  low  balustrade  of  a  height  to 
lean  the  elbows  upon  it.  It  was  on  this  balustrade  that 
Marjorie  leaned,  looking  down  into  the  street. 

To  the  left  the  narrow  roadway  curved  off  out  of  sight 
in  the  direction  of  Palace  Yard;  on  the  right  she  could 
make  out,  a  hundred  yards  away,  some  kind  of  a  gateway, 
that  strode  across  the  street,  and  gave  access,  she  sup- 
posed, to  the  Palace.  Opposite,  the  windows  were  filled 
with  faces,  and  an  enthusiastic  loyalist  was  leaning,  red- 
faced  and  vociferous,  calling  to  a  friend  in  the  crowd  be- 
neath, from  a  gallery  corresponding  to  that  from  which 
the  girl  was  looking. 

Of  the  procession  nothing  was  at  present  to  be  seen. 
They  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  colour  somewhere  to  the 
east  of  the  Abbey  as  they  turned  off  opposite  Westminster 
Hall ;  and  already  the  cry  of  the  trumpets  and  the  increasing 
noise  of  a  crowd  out  of  sight,  told  the  listeners  that  they 
would  not  have  long  to  wait. 

Beneath,  the  crowd  was  arranging  itself  with  admirable 
discipline,  dispersing  in  long  lines  two  or  three  deep 
against  the  walls,  so  as  to  leave  a  good  space,  and  laugh- 
ing good-humouredly  at  a  couple  of  officious  persons  in 
livery  who  had  suddenly  made  their  appearance.  And 
then,  as  the  country  girl  herself  smiled  down,  an  exclama- 
tion from  Alice  made  her  turn. 


166  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

At  first  it  was  difficult  to  discern  anything  clearly  in  the 
stream  whose  head  began  to  discharge  itself  round  the 
curve  from  the  left.  A  row  of  brightly-coloured  uniforms, 
moving  four  abreast,  came  first,  visible  above  the  tossing 
heads  of  horses.  Then  followed  a  group  of  guards,  whose 
steel  caps  passed  suddenly  into  the  sunlight  that  caught 
them  from  between  the  houses,  and  went  again  into 
shadow. 

And  then  at  last,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage, 
followed  by  ladies  on  grey  horses;  and  forgot  all  the 
rest. 

This  way  and  that  she  craned  her  head,  gripping  the 
oak  post  by  which  she  leaned,  unconscious  of  all  except 
that  she  was  to  see  her  in  whom  England  itself  seemed  to 
have  been  incarnated — the  woman  who,  as  perhaps  no 
other  earthly  sovereign  in  the  world  at  that  time,  or  before 
her,  had  her  people  in  a  grasp  that  was  not  one  of  merely 
regal  power.  Even  far  away  in  Derbyshire — even  in  the 
little  country  manor  from  which  the  girl  came,  the  aroma 
of  that  tremendous  presence  penetrated — of  the  woman 
whom  men  loved  to  hail  as  the  Virgin  Queen,  even  though 
they  might  question  her  virginity;  the  woman — "our 
Eliza,"  as  the  priest  had  named  her  just  now — who  had 
made  so  shrewd  an  act  of  faith  in  her  people  that  they  had 
responded  with  an  unreserved  act  of  love.  It  was  this 
woman,  then,  whom  she  was  about  to  see;  the  sister  of 
Mary  and  Edward,  the  daughter  of  Henry  and  Anne 
Boleyn,  who  had  received  her  kingdom  Catholic,  and  by 
her  own  mere  might  had  chosen  to  make  it  Protestant;  the 
woman  whose  anointed  hands  were  already  red  in  the  blood 
of  God's  servants,  yet  hands  which  men  fainted  as  they 
kissed.  .  .  . 

Then  on  a  sudden,  as  Elizabeth  lifted  her  head  this  side 
and  that,  the  girl  saw  her. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  167 

She  was  sitting  in  a  low  carriage,  raised  on  cushions, 
alone.  Four  tall  horses?  drew  her  at  a  slow  trot:  the  wheels 
of  the  carriage  were  deep  in  mud,  since  she  had  driven  for 
an  hour  over  the  deep  December  roads;  but  this  added 
rather  to  the  splendour  within.  But  of  this  Marjorie  re- 
membered no  more  than  an  uncertain  glimpse.  The  air 
was  thick  with  cries;  from  window  after  window  waved 
hands;  and,  more  than  all,  the  loyalty  was  real,  and  filled 
the  air  like  brave  music. 

There,  then,  she  sat,  smiling. 

She  was  dressed  in  some  splendid  stuff;  jewels  sparkled 
beneath  her  throat.  Once  a  hand  in  an  embroidered  glove 
rose  to  wave  an  answer  to  the  roar  of  salute;  and,  as  the 
carriage  came  beneath,  she  raised  her  face. 

It  was  a  thin  face,  sharply  pear-shaped,  ending  in  a 
pointed  chin;  a  tight  mouth  smiled  at  the  corners;  above 
her  narrow  eyes  and  high  brows  rose  a  high  forehead, 
surmounted  by  strands  of  auburn  hair  drawn  back  tightly 
beneath  the  little  head-dress.  It  was  a  strangely  peaked 
face,  very  clear-skinned,  and  resembled  in  some  manner  a 
mask.  But  the  look  of  it  was  as  sharp  as  steel;  like  a 
slender  rapier,  fragile  and  thin,  yet  keen  enough  to  run  a 
man  through.  The  power  of  it,  in  a  word,  was  out  of  all 
measure  with  the  slightness  of  the  face.  .  .  .  Then  the 
face  dropped;  and  Marjorie  watched  the  back  of  the  head 
bending  this  way  and  that,  till  the  nodding  heads  that  fol- 
lowed hid  it  from  sight. 

Marjorie  drew  a  deep  breath  and  turned.  The  faces  of 
her  friends  were  as  pale  and  intent  as  her  own.  Only  the 
priest  was  as  easy  as  ever. 

"  So  that  is  our  Eliza,"  he  said. 

Then  he  did  a  strange  thing. 

He  lifted  his  cap  once  more  with  grave  seriousness. 
"  God  save  her  Grace !  "  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I 

ROBIN  bowed  to  her  very  carefully,  and  stood  upright  again. 

She  had  seen  in  an  instant  how  changed  he  was,  in  that 
swift  instant  in  which  her  eyes  had  singled  him  out  from 
the  little  crowd  of  men  that  had  come  into  the  room  with 
Anthony  at  their  head.  It  was  a  change  which  she  could 
scarcely  have  put  into  words,  unless  she  had  said  that  it 
was  the  conception  of  the  Levite  within  his  soul.  He  was 
dressed  soberly  and  richly,  with  a  sword  at  his  side,  in 
great  riding-boots  splashed  to  the  knees  with  mud,  with 
his  cloak  thrown  back;  and  he  carried  his  great  brimmed 
hat  in  his  hand.  All  this  was  as  it  might  have  been  in 
Derby,  though,  perhaps,  his  dress  was  a  shade  more  digni- 
fied than  that  in  which  she  had  ever  seen  him.  But  the 
change  was  in  his  face  and  bearing;  he  bore  himself  like  a 
man,  and  a  restrained  man;  and  there  was  besides  that 
subtle  air  which  her  woman's  eyes  could  see,  but  which 
even  her  woman's  wit  could  not  properly  describe. 

She  made  room  for  him  to  sit  beside  her;  and  then 
Father  Campion's  voice  spoke: 

"  These  are  the  gentlemen,  then,"  he  said.     "  And  two 

more  are  not  yet  come.    Gentlemen "  he  bowed.     "  And 

which  is  Captain  Fortescue  ?  " 

A  big  man,  distinguished  from  the  rest  by  a  slightly 
military  air,  and  by  a  certain  vividness  of  costume  and  a 
bristling  feather  in  his  hat,  bowed  back  to  him. 

"  We  have  met  once  before,  Mr. — Mr.  Edmonds,"  h» 
said.  "  At  Valladolid." 

168 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  169 

Father  Campion  smiled. 

"  Yes,  sir;  for  five  or  ten  minutes;  and  I  was  in  the  same 
room  with  your  honour  once  at  the  Duke  of  Guise's.  .  .  . 
And  now,  sir,  who  are  the  rest  of  your  company?" 

The  others  were  named  one  by  one;  and  Marjorie  eyed 
each  of  them  carefully.  It  was  her  business  to  know  them 
again  if  ever  they  should  meet  in  the  north;  and  for  a  few 
minutes  the  company  moved  here  and  there,  bowing  and 
saluting,  and  taking  their  seats.  There  were  still  a  couple 
of  men  who  were  not  yet  come;  but  these  two  arrived 
a  few  minutes  later;  and  it  was1  not  until  she  had  said  a 
word  or  two  to  them  all,  and  Father  Campion  had  named 
her  and  her  good  works,  to  them,  that  she  found  herself 
back  again  with  Robin  in  a  seat  a  little  apart. 

"  You  look  very  well,"  she  said,  with  an  admirable  com- 
posure. 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"  I  am  as  weary  as  a  man  can  be,"  he  said.  "  We  have 
ridden  since  before  dawn.  .  .  .  And  you,  and  your  good 
works  ?  " 

Marjorie  explained,  describing  to  him  something  of  the 
Astern  by  which  priests  were  safeguarded  now  in  the  north 
— the  districts  into  which  the  county  was  divided,  and  the 
apportioning  of  the  responsibilities  among  the  faithful 
houses.  It  was  her  business,  she  said,  to  receive  messages 
and  to  pass  them  on;  she  had  entertained  perhaps  a  dozen 
priests  since  the  summer;  perhaps  she  would  entertain  him, 
too,  one  day,  she  said. 

The  ordeal  was  far  lighter  than  she  had  feared  it  would 
be.  There  was  a  strong  undercurrent  of  excitement  in  her 
heart,  flushing  her  cheeks  and  sparkling  in  her  eyes;  yet 
never  for  one  moment  was  she  even  tempted  to  forget  that 
he  was  now  vowed  to  God.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 


170  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

talked  with  him  in  the  spirit  of  that  place  where  there  is 
neither  marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage.  Those  two  years 
of  quiet  in  the  north,  occupied,  even  more  than  she  recog- 
nised, in  the  rearranging  of  her  relations  with  the  memory 
of  this  young  man,  had  done  their  work.  She  still  kindled 
at  his  presence;  but  it  was  at  the  presence  of  one  who  had 
undertaken  an  adventure  that  destroyed  altogether  her  old 
relations  with  him.  .  .  .  She  was  enkindled  even  more  by 
the  sense  of  her  own  security;  and,  as  she  looked  at  him, 
by  the  sense  of  his  security  too.  Robin  was  gone;  here, 
instead,  was  young  Mr.  Audrey,  seminary  student,  who 
even  in  a  court  of  law  could  swear  before  God  that  he  was 
not  a  priest,  nor  had  been  "  ordained  beyond  the  seas." 
So  they  sat  and  exchanged  news.  She  told  him  of  the 
rumours  of  his  father  that  had  come  to  her  from  time  to 
time;  he  would  be  a  magistrate  yet,  it  was  said,  so  hot 
was  his  loyalty.  Even  her  Grace,  it  was  reported,  had 
vowed  she  wished  she  had  a  thousand  such  country  gentle- 
men on  whose  faithfuness  she  could  depend.  And  Robin 
gave  her  news  of  the  seminary,  of  the  hours  of  rising  and 
sleeping,  of  the  sports  there;  of  the  confessors  for  the 
faith  who  came  and  went;  of  Dr.  Allen.  He  told  her,  too, 
of  Mr.  Garlick  and  Mr.  Ludlam;  he  often  had  talked  with 
them  of  Derbyshire,  he  said.  It  was  very  peaceful  and 
very  stirring,  too,  to  sit  here  in  the  lighted  parlour,  and 
hear  and  give  the  news ;  while  the  company,  gathered  round 
Anthony  and  Father  Campion,  talked  in  low  voices,  and 
Mistress  Babington,  placid,  watched  them  and  listened.  He 
showed  her,  too,  Mr.  Maine's  beads  which  she  had  given 
him  so  long  ago,  hung  in  a  little  packet  round  his  neck. 

More  than  once,  as  they  talked,  Marjorie  found  herself 
looking  at  Mr.  Ballard,  or,  as  he  was  called  here,  Captain 
Fortescue.  It  was  he  who  seemed  the  leader  of  the  troop; 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  171 

and,  indeed,  as  Robin  told  her  in  a  whisper,  that  was  what 
he  was.  He  came  and  went  frequently,  he  said;  his  man- 
ner and  his  carriage  were  reassuring  to  the  suspicious ;  he 
appeared,  perhaps,  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  be  a  priest. 
He  was  a  big  man,  as  has  been  said;  and  he  had  a  frank 
assured  way  with  him;  he  was  leaning  forward,  even  now, 
as  she  looked  at  him,  and  seemed  laying  down  the  law, 
though  in  what  was  almost  a  whisper.  Father  Campion  was 
watching  him,  too,  she  noticed;  and,  what  she  had  learned 
of  Father  Campion  in  the  last  few  hours  led  her  to  wonder 
whether  there  was  not  something  of  doubtfulness  in  his 
opinion  of  him. 

Father  Campion  suddenly  shook  his  head  sharply. 

"  I  am  not  of  that  view  at  all,"  he  said.     "  I * 

And  once  more  his  voice  sank  so  low  as  to  be  inaudible; 
as  the  rest  leaned  closer  about  him. 

II 

Mr.  Anthony  Babington  seemed  silent  and  even  a  little 
displeased  when,  half  an  hour  later,  the  visitors  were  all 
gone  downstairs  to  supper.  Three  or  four  of  them  were 
to  sleep  in  the  house;  the  rest,  of  whom  Robin  was  one, 
had  Captain  Fortescue's  instructions  as  to  where  lodgings 
were  prepared.  But  the  whole  company  was  tired  out  with 
the  long  ride  from  the  coast,  and  would  be  seen  no  more 
that  night. 

Marjorie  knew  enough  of  the  divisions  of  opinion  among 
Catholics,  and  of  Mr.  Babington  in  particular,  to  have  a 
general  view  as  to  why  her  companion  was  displeased;  but 
more  than  that  she  did  not  know,  nor  what  point  in  par- 
ticular it  was  on  which  the  argument  had  run.  The  one 
party — of  Mr.  Babington's  kind — held  that  Catholics  were, 
morally,  in  a  state  of  war.  War  had  been  declared  upon 


172  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

them,  without  justification,  by  the  secular  authorities,  and 
physical  instruments,  including  pursuivants  and  the  rack, 
were  employed  against  them.  Then  why  should  not  they, 
too,  employ  the  same  kind  of  instruments,  if  they  could,  in 
return?  The  second  party  held  that  a  religious  persecu- 
tion could  not  be  held  to  constitute  a  state  of  war;  the 
Apostles  Peter  and  Paul,  for  example,  not  only  did  not 
employ  the  arm  of  flesh  against  the  Roman  Empire,  but 
actually  repudiated  it.  And  this  party  further  held  that 
even  the  Pope's  bull,  relieving  Elizabeth's  subjects  from 
their  allegiance,  did  so  only  in  an  interior  sense — in  such 
a  manner  that  while  they  must  still  regard  her  personal 
and  individual  rights — such  rights  as  any  human  being 
possessed — they  were  not  bound  to  render  interior  loyalty 
to  her  as  their  Queen,  and  need  not,  for  example  (though 
they  were  not  forbidden  to  do  so),  regard  it  as  a  duty  to 
fight  for  her,  in  the  event,  let  us  say,  of  an  armed  invasion 
from  Spain. 

There,  then,  was  the  situation;  and  Mr.  Anthony  had, 
plainly,  crossed  swords  this  evening  on  the  point. 

"  The  Jesuit  is  too  simple,"  he  said  suddenly,  as  he 
strode  about.  "  I  think "  He  broke  off. 

His  sister  smiled  upon  him  placidly. 

"  You  are  too  hot,  Anthony,"  she  said. 

The  man  turned  sharply  towards  her. 

"  All  the  praying  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "  has  not  saved 
us  so  far.  It  seems  to  me  time " 

"  Perhaps  our  Lord  would  not  have  us  saved,"  she  said ; 
"  as  you  mean  it." 

Ill 

It  was  not  until  Christmas  Eve  that  Marjorie  went  to 
St.  Paul's,  for  all  that  it  was  so  close.  But  the  days  were 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  173 

taken  up  with  the  visitors ;  a  hundred  matters  had  to  be 
arranged;  for  it  was  decided  that  before  the  New  Year 
all  were  to  be  dispersed.  Captain  Fortescue  and  Robin 
were  to  leave  again  for  the  Continent  on  the  day  following 
Christmas  Day  itself. 

Marjorie  made  acquaintance  during  these  days  with  more 
than  one  meeting-place  of  the  Catholics'  in  London.  One 
was  a  quiet  little  house  near  St.  Bartholomew's-the-Great, 
where  a  widow  had  three  or  four  sets  of  lodgings,  occupied 
frequently  by  priests  and  by  other  Catholics,  who  were 
best  out  of  sight;  and  it  was  here  that  mass  was  to  be  said 
on  Christmas  Day.  Another  was  in  the  Spanish  Embassy; 
and  here,  to  her  joy,  she  looked  openly  upon  a  chapel  of 
her  faith,  and  from  the  gallery  adored  her  Lord  in  the 
tabernacle.  But  even  this  was  accomplished  with  an  air 
of  uneasiness  in  those  round  her;  the  Spanish  priest  who 
took  them  in  walked  quickly  and  interrupted  them  before 
they  were  done,  and  seemed  glad  to  see  the  last  of  them. 
It  was  explained  to  Marjorie  that  the  ambassador  did  not 
wish  to  give  causeless  offence  to  the  Protestant  court. 

And  now,  on  Christmas  Eve,  Robin,  Anthony  and  the 
two  ladies  entered  the  Cathedral  as  dusk  was  falling — first 
passing  through  the  burial-ground,  over  the  wall  of  which 
leaned  the  rows  of  houses  in  whose  windows  lights  were 
beginning  to  burn. 

The  very  dimness  of  the  air  made  the  enormous  heights 
of  the  great  church  more  impressive.  Before  them 
stretched  the  long  nave,  over  seven  hundred  feet  from  end 
to  end;  from  floor  to  roof  the  eye  travelled  up  the  bunches 
of  slender  pillars  to  the  dark  ceiling,  newly  restored  after 
the  fire,  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet.  The  tall  windows  on 
either  side,  and  the  clerestory  lights  above,  glimmered 
faintly  in  the  darkening  light. 

But  to  the  Catholic  eves  that  looked  on  it  the  desolation 


174  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

was  more  apparent  than  the  splendour.  There  were  plenty 
of  people  here,  indeed :  groups  moved  up  and  down,  talking, 
directing  themselves  more  and  more  towards  the  exits,  as 
the  night  was  coming  on  and  the  church  would  be  closed 
presently;  in  one  aisle  a  man  was  talking  aloud,  as  if  lec- 
turing, with  a  crowd  of  heads  about  him.  In  another  a 
number  of  soberly  dressed  men  were  putting  up  their  papers 
and  ink  on  the  little  tables  that  stood  in  a  row — this  was 
Scriveners'  Corner,  she  was  told;  from  a  third  half  a  dozen 
persons  were  dejectedly  moving  away — these  were  servants 
that  had  waited  to  be  hired.  But  the  soul  of  the  place 
was  gone.  When  they  came  out  into  the  transepts,  Anthony 
stopped  them  with  a  gesture,  while  a  couple  of  porters, 
carrying  boxes  on  their  heads,  pushed  by,  on  their  short 
cut  through  the  cathedral. 

"  It  was  there,"  he  said,  "  that  the  altars  stood." 
He  pointed  between  the  pillars  on  either  side,  and  there, 
up  little  raised  steps,  lay  the  floors  of  the  chapels.  But 
within  all  was  empty,  except  for  a  tomb  or  two,  some 
tattered  colours  and  the  piscince  still  in  place.  Where  the 
altars  had  stood  there  were  blank  spaces  of  wall;  piled  up 
in  one  such  place  were  rows  of  wooden  seats1  set  there  for 
want  of  room. 

Opposite  the  entrance  to  the  choir,  where  once  overhead 
had  hung  the  great  Rood,  the  four  stood  and  looked  in, 
through  a  gap  which  the  masons  were  mending  in  the  high 
wall  that  had  bricked  off  the  chancel  from  the  nave.  On 
either  side,  as  of  old,  still  rose  up  the  towering  carven 
stalls ;  the  splendid  pavement  still  shone  beneath,  refracting 
back  from  its  surface  the  glimmer  of  light  from  the  stained 
windows  above ;  but  the  head  of  the  body  was  gone.  Some- 
where, beneath  the  deep  shadowed  altar  screen,  they  could 
make  out  an  erection  that  might  have  been  an  altar,  only 
they  knew  that  it  was  not.  It  was  no  longer  the  Stone  of 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  175 

Sacrifice,  whence  the  smoke  of  the  mystical  Calvary  as- 
cended day  by  day:  it  was  the  table,  and  no  more,  where 
bread  and  wine  were  eaten  and  drunk  in  memory  of  an  event 
whose  deathless  energy  had  ceased,  in  this  place,  at  least, 
to  operate.  Yet  it  was  here,  thought  Marjorie,  that  only 
forty  years  ago,  scarcely  more  than  twenty  years  before  she 
was  born,  on  this  very  Night,  the  great  church  had  hummed 
and  vibrated  with  life.  Round  all  the  walls  had  sat  priests, 
each  in  his  place;  and  beside  each  kneeled  a  penitent, 
making  ready  for  the  joy  of  Bethlehem  once  again — wise 
and  simple — Shepherds  and  Magi — yet  all  simple  before 
the  baffling  and  entrancing  Mystery.  There  had  been  foot- 
steps and  voices  there  too — yet  of  men  who  were  busy  upon 
their  Father's  affairs  in  their  Father's  house,  and  not  upon 
their  own.  They  were  going  from  altar  to  altar,  speaking 
with  their  Friends  at  Court;  and  here,  opposite  where  she 
stood  and  peeped  in  the  empty  cold  darkness,  there  had 
burned  lights  before  the  Throne  of  Him  Who  had  made 
Heaven  and  earth,  and  did  His  Father's  Will  on  earth  as 
it  was  done  in  Heaven.  .  .  .  Forty  years  ago  the  life  of 
this  church  was  rising  on  this  very  night,  with  a  hum  as 
of  an  approaching  multitude,  from  hour  to  hour,  brighten- 
ing and  quickening  as  it  came,  up  to  the  glory  of  the  Mid- 
night Mass,  the  crowded  church,  alight  from  end  to  end, 
the  smell  of  box  and  bay  in  the  air,  soon  to  be  met  and 
crowned  by  the  savour  of  incense-smoke;  and  the  world 
of  spirit,  too,  quickened  about  them;  and  the  angels  (she 
thought)  came  down  from  Heaven,  as  men  up  from  the 
City  round  about,  to  greet  Him  who  is  King  of  both  angels 
and  men. 

And  now,  in  this  new  England,  the  church,  empty  of  the 
Divine  Presence,  was  emptying,  too,  of  its  human  visitors. 
She  could  hear  great  doors  somewhere  crash  together,  and 
the  reverberation  roll  beneath  the  stone  vaulting.  It  w^uld 


176  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

empty  soon,  desolate  and  dark;  and  so  it  would  be  all 
night.  .  .  .  Why  did  not  the  very  stones  cry  out? 

Mistress  Alice  touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"  We  must  be  going,"  she  said.  "  They  are  closing  the 
church." 

IV 

She  had  a  long  talk  with  Robin  on  Christmas  night. 

The  day  had  passed,  making  strange  impressions  on  her, 
which  she  could  not  understand.  Partly  it  was  the  contrast 
between  the  homely  associations  of  the  Feast,  begun,  as  it 
was  for  her,  with  the  mass  before  dawn — the  room  at  the 
top  of  the  widow's  house  was  crowded  all  the  while  she  was 
there — between  these  associations  and  the  unfamiliarity  of 
the  place.  She  had  felt  curiously  apart  from  all  that  she 
saw  that  day  in  the  streets — the  patrolling  groups,  the 
singers,  the  monstrous-headed  mummers  (of  whom  compa- 
nies went  about  all  day),  two  or  three  glimpses  of  important 
City  festivities,  the  garlands  that  decorated  many  of  the 
houses.  It  seemed  to  her  as  a  shadow-show  without  sense 
or  meaning,  since  the  heart  of  Christmas  was  gone.  Partly, 
too,  no  doubt,  it  was  the  memory  of  a  former  Christmas, 
three  years  ago,  when  she  had  begun  to  understand  that 
Robin  loved  her.  And  he  was  with  her  again ;  yet  all  that 
he  had  stood  for,  to  her,  was  gone,  and  another  significance 
had  taken  its  place.  He  was  nearer  to  her  heart,  in  one 
manner,  though  utterly  removed,  in  another.  It  was  as 
when  a  friend  was  dead:  his  familiar  presence  is  gone; 
but  now  that  one  physical  barrier  is  vanished,  his  presence 
is  there,  closer  than  ever,  though  in  another  fashion.  .  .  . 

Robin  had  come  in  to  sup.  Captain  Fortescue  would 
fetch  him  about  nine  o'clock,  and  the  two  were  to  ride  for 
the  coast  before  dawn. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  177 

The  four  sat  quiet  after  supper,  speaking  in  subdued 
voices,  of  hopes  for  the  future,  when  England  should  be 
besieged,  indeed,  by  the  spiritual  forces  that  were  gather- 
ing overseas;  but  they  slipped  gradually  into  talk  of  the 
past  and  of  Derbyshire,  and  of  rides  they  remembered. 
Then,  after  a  while,  Anthony  was  called  away;  Mistress 
Alice  moved  back  to  the  table  to  see  her  needlework  the 
better,  and  Robin  and  Marjorie  sat  together  by  the  fire. 

He  told  her  again  of  the  journey  from  Rheims,  of  the 
inns  where  they  lodged,  of  the  extraordinary  care  that  was 
taken,  even  in  that  Catholic  land,  that  no  rumour  of  the 
nature  of  the  party  should  slip  out,  lest  some  gossip  pre- 
cede them  or  even  follow  them  to  the  coast  of  England. 
They  carried  themselves  even  there,  he  said,  as  ordinary 
gentlemen  travelling  together;  two  of  them  were  supposed 
to  be  lawyers;  he  himself  passed  as  Mr.  Ballard's  servant. 
They  heard  mass  when  they  could  in  the  larger  towns, 
but  even  then  not  all  together. 

The  landing  in  England  had  been  easier,  he  said,  than  he 
had  thought,  though  he  had  learned  afterwards  that  a 
helpful  young  man,  who  had  offered  to  show  him  to  an  inn 
in  Folkestone,  and  in  whose  presence  Mr.  Ballard  had  taken 
care  to  give  him  a  good  rating  for  dropping  a  bag — with 
loud  oaths — was  a  well-known  informer.  However,  no 
harm  was  done:  Mr.  Ballard's  admirable  bearing,  and  his 
oaths  in  particular,  had  seemed  to  satisfy  the  young  man, 
and  he  had  troubled  them  no  more. 

Marjorie  did  not  say  much.  She  listened  with  a  fierce 
attention,  so  much  interested  that  she  was  scarcely  aware 
of  her  own  interest;  she  looked  up,  half  betrayed  into  an- 
noyance, when  a  placid  laugh  from  Mistress  Alice  at  the 
table  showed  that  another  was  listening  too. 

She  too,  then,  had  to  give  her  news,  and  to  receive  mes- 


178  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

sages  for  the  Derbyshire  folk  whom  Robin  wished  to  greet; 
and  it  was  not  until  Mistress  Alice  slipped  out  of  the  room 
that  she  uttered  a  word  of  what  she  had  been  hoping  all 
day  sKe  might  have  an  opportunity  to  say. 

"  Mr.  Audrey,"  she  said  (for  she  was  careful  to  use  this 
form  of  address),  "  I  wish  you  to  pray  for  me.  I  do  not 
know  what  to  do." 

He  was  silent. 

"  At  present/'  she  said,  gathering  courage,  "  my  duty  is 
clear.  I  must  be  at  home,  for  my  mother's  sake,  if  for 
nothing  else.  And,  as  I  told  you,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
do  something  for  priests.  But  if  my  mother  died " 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  as  she  stopped  again. 

She  glanced  up  at  his  serious,  deep-eyed  face,  half  in 
shadow  and  half  in  light,  so  familiar,  and  yet  so  utterly 
apart  from  the  boy  she  had  known. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  think  of  you  as  a  priest  already, 
and  I  can  speak  to  you  freely.  .  .  .  Well,  I  am  not  sure 
whether  I,  too,  shall  not  go  overseas,  to  serve  God 
better." 

"  You  mean " 

"  Yes.  A  dozen  or  more  are  gone  from  Derbyshire, 
whose  names  I  know.  Some  are  gone  to  Bruges;  two  or 
three  to  Rome;  two  or  three  more  to  Spain.  We  women 
cannot  do  what  priests  can,  but,  at  least,  we  can  serve  God 
in  Religion." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  expecting  an  answer.  She  saw 
him  move  his  head,  as  if  to  answer.  Then  he  smiled  sud' 
denly. 

"  Well,  however  you  look  at  me,  I  am  not  a  priest.  .  . 
You  had  best  speak  to  one — Father  Campion  or  another.' 

"But " 

"  And  I  will  pray  for  you,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  finality. 

Then  Mistress  Alice  came  back. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  179 

She  never  forgot,  all  her  life  long,  the  little  scene  that 
took  place  when  Captain  Fortescue  came  in  with  Mr.  Bab- 
ington,  to  fetch  Robin  away.  Yet  the  whole  of  its  vivid- 
ness rose  from  its  interior  significance.  Externally  here 
was  a  quiet  parlour;  two  ladies — for  the  girl  afterwards 
seemed  to  see  herself  in  the  picture — stood  by  the  fireplace ; 
Mistress  Alice  still  held  her  needlework  gathered  up  in 
one  hand,  and  her  spools  of  thread  and  a  pin-cushion  lay 
on  the  polished  table.  And  the  two  gentlemen — for  Cap- 
tain Fortescue  would  not  sit  down,  and  Robin  had  risen  at 
his  entrance — the  two  gentlemen  stood  by  it.  They  were 
not  in  their  boots,  for  they  were  not  to  ride  till  morning; 
they  appeared  two  ordinary  gentlemen,  each  hat-in-hand, 
and  Robin  had  his  cloak  across  his  arm.  Anthony  Babing- 
ton  stood  in  the  shadow  by  the  door,  and,  beyond  him,  the 
girl  could  see  the  face  of  Dick,  who  had  come  up  to  say 
good-bye  again  to  his  old  master. 

That  was  all — four  men  and  two  ladies.  None  raised  his 
voice,  none  made  a  gesture.  The  home  party  spoke  of  the 
journey,  and  of  their  hopes  that  all  would  go  well;  the 
travellers,  or  rather  the  leader  (for  Robin  spoke  not  one 
word,  good  or  bad),  said  that  he  was  sure  it  would  be  so; 
there  was  not  one-tenth  of  the  difficulty  in  getting  out  of 
England  as  of  getting  into  it.  Then,  again,  he  said  that  it 
was  late;  that  he  had  still  one  or  two  matters  to  arrange? 
that  they  must  be  out  of  London  as  soon  as  the  gate? 
opened.  And  the  scene  ended. 

Robin  bowed  to  the  two  ladies,  precisely  and  courteously; 
making  no  difference  between  them,  and  wheeled  and  went 
out,  and  she  saw  Dick's  face,  too,  vanish  from  the  door, 
and  heard  the  voices  of  the  two  on  the  stairs.  Marjorie 
returned  the  salute  of  Mr.  Ballard,  longing  to  entreat  him 
to  take  good  care  of  the  boy,  yet  knowing  that  she  must  not 
and  could  not. 


180  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Then  he,  too,  was  gone,  with  Anthony  to  see  him  down- 
stairs ;  and  Mar j  orie,  without  a  word,  went  straight  through 
to  her  room,  fearing  to  trust  her  own  voice,  for  she  felt 
that  her  heart  was  gone  with  them.  Yet,  not  for  one 
moment  did  even  her  sensitive  soul  distrust  any  more  the 
nature  of  the  love  that  she  bore  to  the  lad. 

But  Mistress  Alice  sat  down  again  to  her  sewing. 


CHAPTER  V 


MARJORIE  was  sitting  in  her  mother's  room,  while  her 
mother  slept.  She  had  been  reading  aloud  from  a  bundle 
of  letters — news  from  Rheims ;  but  little  by  little  she  had 
seen  sleep  come  down  on  her  mother's  face,  and  had  let 
her  voice  trail  away  into  silence.  And  so  she  sat  quiet. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  nearly  a  year  had  passed  since 
her  visit  to  London,  and  that  Christmas  was  upon  them 
again.  Yet  in  this  remote  country  place  there  was  little 
to  make  time  run  slowly:  the  country-side  wheeled  gently 
through  the  courses  of  the  year ;  the  trees  put  on  their  green 
robes,  changed  them  for  russet  and  dropped  them  again; 
the  dogs  and  the  horses  grew  a  little  older,  a  beast  died 
now  and  again,  and  others  were  born.  The  faces  that  she 
knew,  servants  and  farmers,  aged  imperceptibly.  Here 
and  there  a  family  moved  away,  and  another  into  its  place; 
an  old  man  died  and  his  son  succeeded  him,  but  the  mother 
and  sisters  lived  on  in  the  house  in  patriarchal  fashion. 
Priests  came  and  went  again  unobserved;  Marjorie  went  to 
the  sacraments  when  she  could,  and  said  her  prayers  always. 
But  letters  came  more  frequently  than  ever  to  the  little  re- 
mote manor,  carried  now  by  some  farm-servant,  now  left 
by  strangers,  now  presented  as  credentials;  and  Booth's 
Edge  became  known  in  that  underworld  of  the  north, 
which  finds  no  record  in  history,  as  a  safe  place  for  folks 
in  trouble  for  their  faith.  For  one  whole  month  in  the 
summer  there  had  been  a  visitor  at  the  house — a  cousin  of 
old  Mr.  Manners,  it  was  understood;  and,  except  for  the 
-  181 


182  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Catholics  in  the  place,  not  a  soul  knew  him  for  a  priest, 
against  whom  the  hue  and  cry  still  raged  in  York. 

Derbyshire,  indeed,  had  done  well  for  the  old  Religion. 
Man  after  man  went  in  these  years  southwards  and  was 
heard  of  no  more,  till  there  came  back  one  day  a  gentle- 
man riding  alone,  or  with  his  servant;  and  it  became 
known  that  one  more  Derbyshire  man  was  come  again  to 
his  own  place  to  minister  to  God's  people.  Mr.  Ralph 
Sherwine  was  one  of  them;  Mr.  Christopher  Buxton  an- 
other; and  Mr.  Ludlam  and  Mr.  Garlick,  it  was  rumoured, 
would  not  be  long  now.  .  .  .  And  there  had  been  a  won- 
derful cessation  of  trouble,  too.  Not  a  priest  had  suffered 
since  the  two,  the  news  of  whose  death  she  had  heard  two 
years  ago. 

Marjorie,  then,  sitting  quiet  over  the  fire  that  burned 
now  all  the  winter  in  her  mother's  room,  was  thinking  over 
these  things'. 

She  had  had  more  news  from  London  from  time  to  time, 
sent  on  to  her  chiefly  by  Mr.  Babington,  though  none  had 
come  to  her  since  the  summer,  and  she  had  singled  out  in 
particular  all  that  bore  upon  Father  Campion.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  the  hunt  was  hotter  every  month;  yet  he 
seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  Once  he  had  escaped,  she 
had  heard,  through  the  quick  wit  of  a  servant-maid,  who 
had  pushed  him  suddenly  into  a  horse-pond,  as  the  officers 
actually  came  in  sight,  so  that  he  came  out  all  mud  and 
water- weed;  and  had  been  jeered  at  for  a  clumsy  lover  by 
the  very  men  who  were  on  his  trail.  .  .  .  Marjorie  smiled 
to  herself  as  she  nursed  her  knee  over  the  fire,  and  remem- 
bered his  gaiety  and  sharpness. 

Robin,  too,  was  never  very  far  from  her  thoughts.  In 
some  manner  she  put  the  two  together  in  her  mind.  She 
vondered  whether  they  would  ever  travel  together.  It  was 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  183 

her  hope  that  her  old  friend  might  become  another  Campion 
himself  some  day. 

A  log  rolled  from  its  place  in  the  fire,  scattering  sparks. 
She  stooped  to  put  it  back,  glancing  first  at  the  bed  to  see 
if  her  mother  were  disturbed;  and,  as  she  sat  back  again, 
she  heard  the  blowing  of  a  horse  and  a  man's  voice,  fierce 
and  low,  from  beyond  the  windows,  bidding  the  beast  hold 
himself  up. 

She  was  accustomed  now  to  such  arrivals.  They  came 
and  went  like  this,  often  without  warning;  it  was  her  busi- 
ness to  look  at  any  credentials  they  bore  with  them,  and 
then,  if  all  were  well,  to  do  what  she  could — whether  to  set 
them  on  their  way,  or  to  give  them  shelter.  A  room  was 
set  aside  now,  in  the  further  wing,  and  called  openly 
and  freely  the  "  priest's  room," — so  great  was  their 
security. 

She  got  up  from  her  seat  and  went  out  quickly  on  tip 
toe  as  she  heard  a  door  open  and  close  beneath  her  in  the 
house,  running  over  in  her  mind  any  preparations  that  she 
would  have  to  make  if  the  rider  were  one  that  needed 
shelter. 

As  she  looked  down  the  staircase,  she  saw  a  maid  there, 
who  had  run  out  from  the  buttery,  talking  to  a  man  whom 
she  thought  she  knew.  Then  he  lifted  his  face,  and  she  saw 
that  she  was  right:  and  that  it  was  Mr.  Babington. 

She  came  down,  reassured  and  smiling;  but  her  breath 
caught  in  her  throat  as  she  saw  his  face.  .  .  .  She  told  the 
maid  to  be  off  and  get  supper  ready,  but  he  jerked  his 
head  in  refusal.  She  saw  that  he  could  hardly  speak. 
Then  she  led  him  into  the  hall,  taking  down  the  lantern 
that  hung  in  the  passage,  and  placing  it  on  the  table.  But 
her  hand  shook  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  sat  down  heavily  on  a  bench. 


184  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  It  is  all  over,"  he  said.  "  The  bloody  murderers !  .  .  . 
They  were  gibbeted  three  days  ago." 

The  girl  drew  a  long,  steady  breath.  All  her  heart  cried 
"  Robin." 

"  Who  are  they,  Mr.  Babington  ?  " 

"  Why,  Campion  and  Sherwine  and  Brian.  They  were 
taken  a  month  or  two  ago.  ...  I  had  heard  not  a  word  of 
it,  and  .  .  .  and  it  ended  three  days  ago." 

"  I  ...  I  do  not  understand." 

The  man  struck  his  hand  heavily  on  the  long  table 
against  which  he  leaned.  He  appeared  one  flame  of  fury; 
courtesy  and  gentleness  were  all  gone  from  him. 

"  They  were  hanged  for  treason,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Treason ! 
.  .  .  Campion!  .  .  .  By  God!  we  will  give  them  treason 
if  they  will  have  it  so !  " 

All  seemed  gone  from  Marjorie  except  the  white, 
splashed  face  that  stared  at  her,  lighted  up  by  the  lantern 
beside  him,  glaring  from  the  background  of  darkness.  It 
was  not  Robin  .  .  .  not  Robin  .  .  .  yet 

The  shocking  agony  of  her  face  broke  through  the  man's 
heart-broken  fury,  and  he  stood  up  quickly. 

"  Mistress  Marjorie,"  he  said,  "  forgive  me.  ...  I  am 
like  a  madman.  I  am  on  my  way  from  Derby,  where  the 
news  came  to  me  this  afternoon.  I  turned  aside  to  tell 
you.  They  say  the  truce,  as  they  call  it,  is  at  an  end.  I 
came  to  warn  you.  You  must  be  careful.  I  am  riding  for 
London.  My  men  are  in  the  valley.  Mistress  Mar- 
jorie  " 

She  waved  him  aside.  The  blood  was  beginning  again 
to  beat  swiftly  and  deafeningly  in  her  ears,  and  the  word 
came  back. 

"  I  ...  I  was  shocked,"  she  said ;  ".  .  .  you  must  par- 
don me.  ...  Is  it  certain  ?  " 

He  tore  out  a  bundle  of  papers  from  behind  his  cloak, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  185 

detached  one  with  shaking  hands  and  thrust  it  before 
her. 

She  sat  down  and  spread  it  on  the  table.  But  his  voice 
broke  in  and  interrupted  her  all  the  while. 

"  They  were  all  three  taken  together,  in  the  summer.  .  .  . 
I  ...  have  been  in  France;  my  letters  never  reached 
me.  .  .  .  They  were  racked  continually.  .  .  .  They  died 
all  together;  praying  for  the  Queen  ...  at  Tyburn.  .  .  . 
Campion  died  the  first.  .  .  ." 

She  pushed  the  paper  from  her;  the  close  handwriting 
was  no  more  to  her  than  black  marks  on  the  paper.  She 
passed  her  hands  over  her  forehead  and  eyes. 

"  Mistress  Marjorie,  you  look  like  death.  See,  I  will 
leave  the  paper  with  you.  It  is  from  one  of  my  friends 
who  was  there.  .  .  ." 

The  door  was  pushed  open,  and  the  servant  came  in, 
bearing  a  tray. 

"  Set  it  down,"  said  Marjorie,  as  coolly  as  if  death  and 
horror  were  as  far  from  her  as  an  hour  ago. 

She  nodded  sharply  to  the  maid,  who  went  out  again; 
then  she  rose  and  spread  the  food  within  the  man's  reach. 
He  began  to  eat  and  drink,  talking  all  the  time. 

As  she  sat  and  watched  him  and  listened,  remembering 
afterwards,  as  if  mechanically,  all  that  he  said,  she  was  con- 
templating something  else.  She  seemed  to  see  Campion, 
not  as  he  had  been  three  days  ago,  not  as  he  was  now  .  .  . 
but  as  she  had  seen  him  in  London — alert,  brisk,  quick. 
Even  the  tones  of  his  voice  were  with  her,  and  the  swift 
merry  look  in  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Somewhere  on  the  outskirts  of 
her  thought  there  hung  other  presences:  the  darkness,  the 
blood,  the  smoking  cauldron.  .  .  .  Oh !  she  would  have  to 
face  these  presently;  she  would  go  through  this  night,  she 
knew,  looking  at  all  their  terror.  But  just  now  let  her 


186  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

remember  him  as  he  had  been;  let  her  keep  off  all  other 
thoughts  so  long  as  she  could.  .  .  . 


II 

When  she  had  heard  the  horse's  footsteps  scramble  down 
the  little  steep  ascent  in  the  dark,  and  then  pass  into 
silence  on  the  turf  beyond,  she  closed  the  outer  door,  barred 
it  once  more,  and  then  went  back  straight  into  the  hall, 
where  the  lantern  still  burned  among  the  plates.  She  dared 
not  face  her  mother  yet;  she  must  learn  how  far  she  still 
held  control  of  herself;  for  her  mother  must  not  hear  the 
news:  the  apothecary  from  Derby  who  had  ridden  up  to 
see  her  this  week  had  been  very  emphatic.  So  the  girl 
must  be  as  usual.  There  must  be  no  sign  of  discomposure. 
To-night,  at  least,  she  would  keep  her  face  in  the  shadow. 
But  her  voice?  Could  she  control  that  too? 

After  she  had  sat  motionless  in  the  cold  hall  a  minute  or 
two,  she  tested  herself. 

"  He  is  dead,"  she  said  softly.  "  He  is  quite  dead,  and 
so  are  the  others.  They " 

But  she  could  not  go  on.  Great  shuddering  seized  on 
her;  she  shook  from  head  to  foot.  .  .  . 

Later  that  night  Mrs.  Manners  awoke.  She  tried  to 
move  her  head,  but  the  pain  was  shocking,  and  still  half 
lisleep,  she  moaned  aloud. 

Then  the  curtains  moved  softly,  and  she  could  see  that 
«  face  was  looking  at  her. 

"  Margy !     Is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Move  my  head ;  move  my  head.     I  cannot  bear " 

She  felt  herself  lifted  gently  and  strongly.  The  struggle 
&nd  the  pain  exhausted  her  for  a  minute,  and  she  lay 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  187 

breathing  deeply.  Then  the  ease  of  the  shifted  position 
soothed  her. 

"  I  cannot  see  your  face,"  she  said.  "  Where  is  the 
light?  " 

The  face  disappeared,  and  immediately,  through  the 
curtains,  the  mother  saw  the  light.  But  still  she  could  not 
see  the  girl's  face.  She  said  so  peevishly. 

"  It  will  weary  your  eyes.  Lie  still,  mother,  and  go  to 
sleep  again." 

"  What  time  is  it?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Are  you  not  in  bed  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  mother." 

The  sick  woman  moaned  again  once  or  twice,  but 
thought  no  more  of  it.  And  presently  the  deep  sleep  of 
sickness  came  down  on  her  again. 

They  rose  early  in  those  days  in  England ;  and  soon 
after  six  o'clock,  as  Janet  had  seen  nothing  of  her  young 
mistress,  she  opened  the  door  of  the  sleeping-room  and 
peeped  in.  ...  A  minute  later  Marjorie's  mind  rose  up  out 
of  black  gulfs  of  sleep,  in  which,  since  her  falling  asleep 
an  hour  or  two  ago,  she  had  wandered,  bearing  an  intoler- 
able burden,  which  she  could  neither  see  nor  let  fall,  to 
find  the  rosy-streaked  face  of  Janet,  all  pinched  with  cold, 
peering  into  her  own.  She  sat  up,  wide  awake,  yet  with 
all  her  world  still  swaying  about  her,  and  stared  into  her 
maid's  eyes. 

"  What  is  it?     What  time  is  it?  " 

"  It  is  after  six,  mistress.  And  the  mistress  seems  un- 
easy. I " 

Marjorie  sprang  up  and  went  to  the  bed. 


188  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Ill 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  her  mother  died. 

There  was  no  priest  within  reach.  A  couple  of  men  had 
ridden  out  early,  dispatched  by  Marjorie  within  half  an 
hour  of  her  awaking — to  Dethick,  to  Hathersage,  and  to 
every  spot  within  twenty  miles  where  a  priest  might  be 
found,  with  orders  not  to  return  without  one.  But  the 
long  day  had  dragged  out:  and  when  dusk  was  falling,  still 
neither  had  come  back.  The  country  was  rain-soaked  and 
all  but  impassable,  she  learned  later,  across  valley  after 
valley,  where  the  streams  had  risen.  And  nowhere  could 
news  be  gained  that  any  priest  was  near;  for,  as  a  further 
difficulty,  open  inquiry  was  not  always  possible,  in  view  of 
the  news  that  had  come  to  Booth's  Edge  last  night.  The 
girl  had  understood  that  the  embers  were  rising  again  to 
flame  in  the  south;  and  who  could  tell  but  that  a  careless 
word  might  kindle  the  fire  here,  too.  She  had  been  urged 
by  Anthony  to  hold  herself  more  careful  than  ever,  and  she 
had  been  compelled  to  warn  her  messengers. 

It  was  soon  after  dusk  had  fallen — the  heavy  dusk  of  a 
December  day — that  her  mother  had  come  back  again  to 
consciousness.  She  opened  her  eyes  wearily,  coming  back, 
as  Marjorie  had  herself  that  morning,  from  that  strange 
realm  of  heavy  and  deathly  sleep,  to  the  pale  phantom 
world  called  "  life  " ;  and  agonising  pain  about  the  heart 
stabbed  her  wide  awake. 

"  O  Jesu !  "  she  screamed. 

Then  she  heard  her  daughter's  voice,  very  steady  and 
plain,  in  her  ear. 

"  There  is  no  priest,  mother  dear.    Listen  to  me." 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  .      .  Jesu !  " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  189 

Her  eyes  closed  again  for  torment,  and  the  sweat  ran 
down  her  face.  The  slow  poison  that  had  weighted  and 
soaked  her  limbs  so  gradually  these  many  months  past, 
was  closing  in  at  last  upon  her  heart,  and  her  pain  was 
gathering  to  its  last  assault.  The  silent,  humorous  woman 
was  changed  into  one  twitching,  uncontrolled  incarnation 
«)f  torture. 

Then  again  the  voice  began: 

"  Jesu,  Who  didst  die  for  love  of  me — upon  the  Cross — 
let  me  die — for  love  of  Thee." 

"  Christ !  "  moaned  the  woman  more  softly. 

"  Say  it  in  your  heart,  after  me.  There  is  no  priest. 
So  God  will  accept  your  sorrow  instead.  Now  then " 

Then  the  old  words  began — the  old  acts  of  sorrow  and 
love  and  faith  and  hope,  that  mother  and  daughter  had  said 
together,  night  after  night,  for  so  many  years.  Over  and 
over  again  they  came,  whispered  clear  and  sharp  by  the 
voice  in  her  ear;  and  she  strove  to  follow  them.  Now  and 
again  the  pain  closed  its  sharp  hands  upon  her  heart  so 
cruelly  that  all  that  on  which  she  strove  to  fix  her  mind, 
fled  from  her  like  a  mist,  and  she  moaned  or  screamed,  or 
was  silent  with  her  teeth  clenched  upon  her  lip. 

"  My  God — I  am  very  sorry — that  I  have  offended 
Thee." 

"Why  is  there  no  priest?  .  .  .  Where  is  the  priest?" 

"  Mother,  dear,  listen.  I  have  sent  for  a  priest  .  .  .  but 
none  has  come.  You  remember  now?  .  .  .  You  remember 
that  priests  are  forbidden  now " 

"  Where  is  the  priest  ?  " 

"  Mother,  dear.  Three  priests  were  put  to  death  only 
three  days  ago  in  London — for  .  .  .  for  being  priests.  Ask 
them  to  pray  for  you.  .  .  .  Say,  Edmund  Campion  pray 
for  me.  Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps " 

The  girl's  voice  died  away. 


190  COME  BACK!     COME  ROPE! 

For,  for  a  full  minute,  an  extraordinary  sensation  rested 
on  her.  It  began  with  a  sudden  shiver  of  the  flesh,  as  sharp 
and  tingling  as  water,  dying  away  in  long  thrills  amid  her 
hair — that  strange  advertisement  that  tells  the  flesh  that 
more  than  flesh  is  there,  and  that  the  world  of  spirit  is  not 
only  present,  but  alive  and  energetic.  Then,  as  it  passed, 
the  whole  world,  too,  passed  into  silence.  The  curtains 
that  shook  just  now  hung  rigid  as  sheets  of  steel;  the  woman 
in  the  bed  lay  suddenly  still,  then  smiled  with  closed  eyes. 
The  pair  of  maids,  kneeling  out  of  sight  beyond  the  bed, 
ceased  to  sob;  and,  while  the  seconds  went  by,  as  real  as 
any  knowledge  can  be  in  which  the  senses  have  no  part, 
the  certain  knowledge  deepened  upon  the  girl  who  knelt, 
arrested  in  spite  of  herself,  that  a  priestly  presence  was 
here  indeed.  .  .  . 

Very  slowly,  as  if  lifting  great  weights1,  she  raised  her 
eyes,  knowing  that  there,  across  the  tumbled  bed,  where 
the  darkness  of  the  room  showed  between  the  parted  cur- 
tains, the  Presence  was  poised.  Yet  there  was  nothing 
there  to  see — no  tortured,  smoke-stained,  throttling  face — 
ah !  that  could  not  be — but  neither  was  there  the  merry, 
kindly  face,  with  large  cheerful  eyes  and  tender  mouth 
smiling;  no  hand  held  the  curtains  that  the  face  might  peer 
in.  Neither  then  nor  at  any  time  in  all  her  life  did  Mar- 
jorie  believe  that  she  saw  him;  yet  neither  then  nor  in  all 
her  life  did  she  doubt  he  had  been  there  while  her  mother 
died. 

Again  her  mother  smiled — and  this  time  she  opened  her 
eyes  to  the  full,  and  there  was  no  dismay  in  them,  nor  fear, 
nor  disappointment;  and  she  looked  a  little  to  her  left, 
where  the  parted  curtains  showed  the  darkness  of  the 
room.  „  .  . 

Then  Marjorie  closed  her  eyes,  and  laid  her  head  on  the 
bed  where  her  mother's  body  sank  back  and  down  into  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  Ipl 

pillows.    Then  the  girl  slipped  heavily  to  the  floor,  and  the 
maids  sprang  up  screaming. 


IV 

It  was  not  till  two  hours  later  that  Mr.  Simpson  arrived. 
He  had  been  found  at  last  at  Hathersage,  only  a  few  miles 
away,  as  one  of  the  men,  on  his  return  ride,  had  made  one 
last  inquiry  before  coming  home;  and  there  he  ran  into  the 
priest  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  The  priest  had 
taken  the  man's  horse  and  pushed  on  as  well  as  he  could 
through  the  dark,  in  the  hopes  he  might  yet  be  in  time. 

Marjorie  came  to  him  in  the  parlour  downstairs.  She 
nodded  her  head  slowly  and  gravely. 

"  It  is  over,"  she  said;  and  sat  down. 

"And  there  was  no  priest?" 

She  said  nothing. 

She  was  in  her  house-dress,  with  the  hood  drawn  over 
her  head  as  it  was  a  cold  night.  He  was  amazed  at  her 
look  of  self-control;  he  had  thought  to  find  her  either  col- 
lapsed or  strainedly  tragic:  he  had  wondered  as  he  came 
how  he  would  speak  to  her,  how  he  would  soothe  her,  and 
he  saw  there  was  no  need. 

She  told  him  presently  of  the  sudden  turn  for  the  worse 
early  that  morning  as  she  herself  fell  asleep  by  the  bed- 
side ;  and  a  little  of  what  had  passed  during  the  day.  Then 
she  stopped  short  as  she  approached  the  end. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news  from  London?"  she  said. 
"  I  mean,  of  our  priests  there?  " 

His  young  face  grew  troubled,  and  he  knit  his  forehead. 

"  They  are  in  ward,"  he  said;  "  I  heard  a  week  ago.  .  .  . 
They  will  banish  them  from  England — they  dare  not  do 
more !  " 

"  It  is  all  finished/'  she  said  quietly. 


192  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"What!" 

"  They  were  hanged  at  Tyburn  three  days  ago — the 
three  of  them  together. 

He  drew  a  hissing  breath,  and  felt  the  skin  of  his  face 
tingle. 

"  You  have  heard  that  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Babington  came  to  tell  me  last  night.  He  left  a 
paper  with  me:  I  have  not  read  it  yet." 

He  watched  her  as  she  drew  it  out  and  put  it  before  him. 
The  terror  was  on  him,  as  once  or  twice  before  in  his  jour- 
neyings,  or  as  when  the  news  of  Mr.  Nelson's  death  had 
reached  him — a  terror  which  shamed  him  to  the  heart,  and 
which  he  loathed  yet  could  not  overcome.  He  still  stared 
into  her  pale  face.  Then  he  took  the  paper  and  began  to 
read  it. 

Presently  he  laid  it  down  again.  The  sick  terror  was 
beginning  to  pass;  or,  rather,  he  was  able  to  grip  it;  and 
he  said  a  conventional  word  or  two;  he  could  do  no  more. 
There  was  no  exultation  in  his  heart;  nothing  but  misery. 
And  then,  in  despair,  he  left  the  subject. 

"And  you,  mistress,"  he  said,  "what  will  you  do  now? 
Have  you  no  aunt  or  friend " 

"  Mistress  Alice  Babington  once  said  she  would  come 
and  live  with  me — if  .  .  .  when  I  needed  it.  I  shall  write 
to  her  I  do  not  know  what  else  to  do." 

"  And  you  will  live  here  ?  " 

"  Why ;  more  than  ever !  "  she  said,  smiling  suddenly. 
"  I  can  work  in  earnest  now." 


CHAPTER  VI 


IT  was  on  a  bright  evening  in  the  summer  that  Marjorie, 
with  her  maid  Janet,  came  riding  down  to  Padley,  and 
about  the  same  time  a  young  man  came  walking  up  the 
track  that  led  from  Derby.  In  fact,  the  young  man  saw 
the  two  against  the  skyline  and  wondered  who  they  were. 
Further,  there  was  a  group  of  four  or  five  walking  on  the 
terrace  below  the  house,  that  saw  both  the  approaching 
parties,  and  commented  upon  their  coming. 

To  be  precise,  there  were  four  persons  in  the  group  on 
the  terrace,  and  a  man-servant  who  hung  near.  The  four 
were  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert,  his  son  Thomas,  his  son's  wife, 
and,  in  the  midst,  leaning  on  Mrs.  FitzHerbert's  arm,  was 
old  Sir  Thomas  himself,  and  it  was  for  his  sake  that  the 
servant  was  within  call,  for  he  was  still  very  sickly 
after  his  long  imprisonment,  in  spite  of  his  occasional  re- 
leases. 

Mr.  John  saw  the  visitors  first. 

"  Why,  here  is  the  company  all  arrived  together,"  he  said. 

"  Now,  if  anything  hung  on  that "  his  son  broke  in, 

uneasily. 

"  You  are  sure  of  young  Owen  ?  "  he  said.  "  Our  lives 
will  all  hang  on  him  after  this." 

His  father  clapped  him  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Now,  now !  "  he  said.     "  I  know  him  well  enough,  from 
my  lord.     He  hath  made  a  dozen  such  places  in  this  county 
•lone," 

Mr.  Thomas  glanced  swiftly  at  his  uncle. 

"  And  you  have  spoken  with  him,  too,  uncle  ?  " 

193 


194  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

The  old  man  turned  his  melancholy  eyes  on  him. 
"  Yes ;  I  have  spoken  with  him,"  he  said. 

Five  minutes  later  Marjorie  was  dismounted,  and  was 
with  him.  She  greeted  old  Sir  Thomas  with  particular  re- 
spect; she  had  talked  with  him  a  year  ago  when  he  was 
first  released  that  he  might  raise  his  fines;  and  she  knew 
well  enough  that  his  liberty  was  coming  to  an  end.  In 
fact,  he  was  technically  a  prisoner  even  now;  and  had  only 
been  allowed  to  come  for  a  week  or  two  from  Sir  Walter 
Aston's  house  before  going  back  again  to  the  Fleet. 

"  You  are  come  in  good  time,"  said  Sir  John,  smiling. 

"  That  is  young  Owen  himself  coming  up  the  path." 

There  was  nothing  particularly  noticeable  about  the 
young  man  who  a  minute  later  was  standing  before  them 
with  his  cap  in  his  hand.  He  was  plainly  of  the  working 
class;  and  he  had  over  his  shoulder  a  bag  of  tools.  He 
was  dusty  up  to  the  knees  with  his  long  tramp.  Mr.  John 
gave  him  a  word  of  welcome;  and  then  the  whole  group 
went  slowly  together  back  to  the  house,  with  the  two  men 
following.  Sir  Thomas  stumbled  a  little  going  up  the  two 
or  three  steps  into  the  hall.  Then  they  all  sat  down  to- 
gether ;  the  servant  put  a  big  flagon  and  a  horn  tumbler 
beside  the  traveller,  and  went  out,  closing  the  doors. 

"  Now,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  John.  "  Do  you  eat  and 
drink  while  I  do  the  talking.  I  understand  you  are  a  man 
of  your  hands,  and  that  you  have  business  elsewhere." 

"  I  must  be  in  Lancashire  by  the  end  of  the  week,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then.  We  have  business  enough  for  you, 
God  knows !  This  is  Mistress  Manners,  whom  you  may 
have  heard  of.  And  after  you  have  looked  at  the  places  we 
have  here — you  understand  me? — Mistress  Manners  wants 
you  at  her  house  at  Booth's  Edge.  .  .  .  You  hare  any 
papers  ?  " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  1Q5 

Owen  leaned  back  and  drew  out  a  paper  from  his  bag  of 
tools. 

"  This  is  from  Mr.  Fenton,  sir." 

Mr.  John  glanced  at  the  address;  then  he  turned  it  over 
and  broke  the  seal.  He  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  open 
sheet. 

"  Why,  it  is  blank !  "  he  said. 

Owen  smiled.  He  was  a  grave-looking  lad  of  eighteen  or 
nineteen  years  old ;  and  his  face  lighted  up  very  pleasantly. 

"  I  have  had  that  trick  played  on  me  before,  sir,  in  my 
travels.  I  understand  that  Catholic  gentlemen  do  so  some- 
times to  try  the  fidelity  of  the  messenger." 

The  other  laughed  out  loud,  throwing  back  his  head. 

"  Why,  that  is  a  poor  compliment !  "  he  said.  "  You 
shall  have  a  better  one  from  us,  I  have  no  doubt." 

Mr.  Thomas  leaned  over  the  table  and  took  the  paper. 
He  examined  it  very  carefully;  then  he  handed  it  back. 
His  father  laughed  again  as  he  took  it. 

"  You  are  very  cautious,  my  son,"  he  said.  "  But  it  is 
wise  enough.  .  .  .  Well,  then,"  he  went  on  to  the  carpenter, 
"  you  are  willing  to  do  this  work  for  us  ?  And  as  for  pay- 
ment  " 

"  I  ask  only  my  food  and  lodging,"  said  the  lad  quietly; 
"  and  enough  to  carry  me  on  to  the  next  place." 

"  Why "  began  the  other  in  a  protest. 

"  No,  sir ;  no  more  than  that.  .  .  ."  He  paused  an  in- 
stant. "  I  hope  to  be  admitted  to  the  Society  of  Jesus  this 
year  or  next." 

There  was  a  pause  of  astonishment.  And  then  old  Sir 
Thomas'  deep  voice  broke  in. 

"  You  do  very  well,  sir.  I  heartily  congratulate  you. 
And  I  would  I  were  twenty  years  younger  myself.  .  .  ." 


196  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

II 

After  supper  that  night  the  entire  party  went  upstairs 
to  the  chapel. 

Young  Hugh  Owen  even  already  was  beginning  to  be 
known  among  Catholics,  for  his  extraordinary  skill  in  con- 
structing hiding-holes.  Up  to  the  present  not  much  more 
had  been  attempted  than  little  secret  recesses  where  the 
vessels  of  the  altar  and  the  vestments  might  be  concealed. 
But  the  young  carpenter  had  been  ingenious  enough  in  two 
or  three  houses  to  which  he  had  been  called,  to  enlarge 
these  so  considerably  that  even  two  or  three  men  might 
be  sheltered  in  them;  and,  now  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
persecution  of  recusants  was  to  break  out  again,  the  idea 
began  to  spread.  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert  while  in  London 
had  heard  of  his  skill,  and  had  taken  means  to  get  at  the 
young  man,  for  his  own  house  at  Padley. 

Owen  was  already  at  work  when  the  party  came  upstairs. 
He  had  supped  alone,  and,  with  a  servant  to  guide  him, 
had  made  the  round  of  the  house,  taking  measurements  in 
every  possible  place.  He  was  seated  on  the  floor  as  they 
came  in;  three  or  four  panels  lay  on  the  ground  beside  him, 
and  a  heap  of  plaster  and  stones. 

He  looked  up  as  they  came  in. 

"  This  will  take  me  all  night,  sir,"  he  said.  "  And  the 
fire  must  be  put  out  below." 

He  explained  his  plan.  The  old  hiding-place  was  but  a 
poor  affair;  it  consisted  of  a  space  large  enough  for  only 
one  man,  and  was  contrived  by  a  section  of  the  wall  having 
been  removed,  all  but  the  outer  row  of  stones  made  thin  for 
the  purpose;  the  entrance  to  it  was  through  a  tall  sliding 
panel  on  the  inside  of  the  chapel.  Its  extreme  weakness  as 
a  hiding-hole  lay  in  the  fact  that  anyone  striking  on  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  197 

panel  could  not  fail  to  hear  how  hollow  it  rang.  This  he 
proposed  to  do  away  with,,  unless,  indeed,  he  left  a  small 
space  for  the  altar  vessels;  and  to  construct  instead  a  little 
chamber  in  the  chimney  of  the  hall  that  was  built  against 
this  wall;  he  would  contrive  it  so  that  an  entrance  was  still 
from  the  chapel,  as  well  as  one  that  he  would  make  over 
the  hearth  below;  and  that  the  smoke  should  be  conducted 
round  the  little  enclosed  space,  passing  afterwards  up  the 
usual  vent.  The  chamber  would  be  large  enough,  he 
thought,  for  at  least  two  men.  He  explained,  too,  his 
method  of  deadening  the  hollowness  of  the  sound  if  the 
panel  were  knocked  upon,  by  placing  pads  of  felt  on  struts1 
of  wood  that  would  be  set  against  the  panel-door. 

"  Why,  that  is  very  shrewd !  "  cried  Mr.  John.  He  looked 
round  the  faces  for  approval. 

For  an  hour  or  so,  the  party  sat  and  watched  him  at  his 
work;  and  Marjorie  listened  to  their  talk.  It  was  of  that 
which  filled  the  hearts  of  all  Catholics  at  this  time;  of  the 
gathering  storm  in  England,  of  the  priests'  that  had  been 
executed  this  very  year — Mr.  Paine  at  Chelmsford,  in 
March;  Mr.  Forde,  Mr.  Shert  and  Mr.  Johnson,  at  Ty- 
burn in  May,  the  first  of  the  three  having  been  taken  with 
Father  Campion  at  Lyford — deaths  that  were  followed 
two  days  later  by  the  execution  of  four  more — one  of  whom, 
Mr.  Filbie,  had  also  been  arrested  at  Lyford.  And  there 
were  besides  a  great  number  more  in  prison — Mr.  Cottam, 
it  was  known,  had  been  taken  at  York,  scarcely  a  week 
ago,  and,  it  was  said,  would  certainly  suffer  before  long. 

They  talked  in  low  voices;  for  the  shadow  was  on  all 
their  hearts.  It  had  been  possible  almost  to  this  very  year 
to  hope  that  the  misery  would  be  a  passing  one;  but  the 
time  for  hope  was  gone.  It  remained  only  to  bear  what 
came,  to  multiply  priests,  and,  if  necessary,  martyrs,  and 
meantime  to  take  such  pains  for  protection  as  they  could. 


198  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  He  will  be  a  clever  pursuivant  who  finds  this  one  out,' 
said  Mr.  John. 

The  carpenter  looked  up  from  his  work. 
"  But  a  clever  one  will  find  it,"  he  said. 
Mr.  Thomas  was  heard  to  sigh. 


Ill 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  that  Mar- 
jorie  rode  up  to  her  house  with  Janet  beside  her,  and  Hugh 
Owen  walking  by  her  horse. 

He  had  finished  his  work  at  Padley  an  hour  or  two  after 
dawn — for  he  worked  at  night  when  he  could,  and  had 
then  gone  to  rest.  But  he  had  been  waiting  for  her  when 
her  horses  were  brought,  and  asked  if  he  might  walk  with 
her;  he  had  asked  it  simply  and  easily,  saying  that  il 
might  save  his  losing  his  way,  and  time  was  precious  to 
him. 

Marjorie  felt  very  much  interested  by  this  lad,  for  he 
was  no  more  than  that.  In  appearance  he  was  like  any  of 
his  kind,  with  a  countryman's  face,  in  a  working-dress: 
she  might  have  seen  him  by  chance  a  hundred  times  and 
not  known  him  again.  But  his  manner  was  remarkable, 
so  wholly  simple  and  well-bred:  he  was  courteous  always, 
as  suited  his  degree;  but  he  had  something  of  the  same 
assurance  that  she  had  noticed  so  plainly  in  Father  Cam- 
pion. (He  talked  with  a  plain,  Northern  dialect.) 

Presently  she  opened  on  that  very  point;  for  she  could 
talk  freely  before  Janet. 

"  Djd  you  ever  know  Father  Campion  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  with  him,  mistress.  I  have  heard 
him  preach.  It  was  that  which  put  it  in  my  heart  to  join 
the  company." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  199 

"  You  heard  him  preach  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mistress ;  three  or  four  times  in  Essex  and  Hert- 
fordshire. I  heard  him  preach  upon  the  young  man  who 
came  to  our  Saviour." 

"  Tell  me/'  she  said,  looking  down  at  what  she  could  see 
of  his  face. 

"  It  was  liker  an  angel  than  a  man/'  he  said  quietly. 
"  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  him  from  his  first  word  to 
the  last.  And  all  were  the  same  that  were  there." 

"  Was  he  eloquent?  " 

"  Aye ;  you  might  call  it  that.  But  I  thought  it  to  be  the 
Spirit  of  God." 

"  And  it  was  then  you  made  up  your  mind  to  join  the 
Society  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  rest  for  me  till  I  did.  '  And  Christ  also 
went  away  sorrowful/  were  his  last  words.  And  I  could 
not  bear  to  think  that." 

Marjorie  was  silent  through  pure  sympathy.  This 
young  man  spoke  a  language  she  understood  better  than 
that  which  some  of  her  friends  used — Mr.  Babington,  for 
instance.  It  was  the  Person  of  Jesus  Christ  that  was  all 
her  religion  to  her;  it  was  for  this  that  she  was  devout, 
that  she  went  to  mass  and  the  sacraments  when  she  could; 
it  was  this  that  made  Mary  dear  to  her.  Was  He  not  her 
son  ?  And,  above  all,  it  was  for  this  that  she  had  sacrificed 
Robin:  she  could  not  bear  that  he  should  not  serve  Him  as 
a  priest,  if  he  might.  But  the  other  talk  that  she  had 
heard  sometimes — of  the  place  of  religion  in  politics,  and 
the  justification  of  this  or  that  course  of  public  action — 
well,  she  knew  that  these  things  must  be  so;  yet  it  was  not 
the  manner  of  her  own  most  intimate  thought,  and  the 
language  of  it  was  not  hers. 

The  two  went  together  so  a  few  paces,  without  speaking. 
Then  she  had  a  sudden  impulse. 


200  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  And  do  you  ever  think  of  what  may  come  upon  you  ?  ' 
she  asked.  "  Do  you  ever  think  of  the  end?  " 

"  Aye,"  he  said. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  the  end  will  be  ?  " 

She  saw  him  raise  his  eyes  to  her  an  instant. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  I  shall  die  for  my  faith  some 
day." 

That  same  strange  shiver  that  passed  over  her  at  her 
mother's  bedside,  passed  over  her  again,  as  if  material 
things  grew  thin  about  her.  There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice 
chat  made  it  absolutely  clear  to  her  that  he  was  not  speak- 
ing of  a  fancy,  but  of  some  certain  knowledge  that  he  had. 
Yet  she  dared  not  ask  him,  and  she  was  a  middle-aged 
woman  before  the  news  came  to  her  of  his  death  upon  the 
rack. 


IV 

It  was  a  sleepy-eyed  young  man  that  came  into  the 
kitchen  early  next  morning,  where  the  ladies  and  the  maids 
were  hard  at  work  all  together  upon  the  business  of  baking. 
The  baking  was  a  considerable  task  each  week,  for  there 
were  not  less  than  twenty  mouths,  all  told,  to  feed  in  the 
hall  day  by  day,  including  a  widow  or  two  that  called  each 
day  for  rations;  and  a  great  part,  therefore,  of  a  mistress's 
time  in  such  houses  was  taken  up  with  such  things. 

Marjorie  turned  to  him,  with  her  arms  floured  to  the 
elbow. 

"Well?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  I  have  done,  mistress.  Will  it  please  you  to  see  it 
before  I  go  and  sleep  ?  " 

They  had  examined  the  house  carefully  last  night, 
measuring  and  sounding  in  the  deep  and  thin  walls  alike, 
for  there  was  at  present  no  convenience  at  all  for  a  hunted 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  201 

man.  Owen  had  obtained  her  consent  to  two  or  three 
alternative  proposals,  and  she  had  then  left  him  to  himself. 
From  her  bed,  that  she  had  had  prepared,  with  Alice  Bab- 
ington's,  in  a  loft — turning  out  for  the  night  the  farm-men 
who  had  usually  slept  there,  she  had  heard  more  than  once 
the  sound  of  distant  hammering  from  the  main  front  of 
the  house  where  her  own  room  lay,  that  had  been  once  her 
mother's  as  well. 

The  possibilities  in  this  little  manor  were  small.  To  con- 
struct a  passage,  giving  an  exterior  escape,  as  had  been 
made  in  some  houses,  would  have  meant  here  a  labour  of 
weeks,  and  she  had  told  the  young  man  she  would  be  con- 
tent with  a  simple  hiding-hole.  Yet,  although  she  did  not 
expect  great  things,  and  knew,  moreover,  the  kind  of  place 
that  he  would  make,  she  was  as  excited  as  a  child,  in  a 
grave  sort  of  way,  at  what  she  would  see. 

He  took  her  first  into  the  parlour,  where  years  ago  Robin 
had  talked  with  her  in  the  wintry  sunshine.  The  open 
chimney  was  on  the  right  as  they  entered,  and  though  she 
knew  that  somewhere  on  that  same  side  would  be  one  of 
the  two  entrances  that  had  been  arranged,  all  the  difference 
she  could  see  was  that  a  piece  of  the  wall-hanging  that  had 
been  between  the  window  and  the  fire  was  gone,  and  that 
there  hung  in  its  place  an  old  picture  painted  on  a  panel. 
She  looked  at  this  without  speaking:  the  wall  was  wains- 
coted in  oak,  as  it  had  always  been,  six  feet  up  from  the 
floor.  Then  an  idea  came  to  her:  she  tilted  the  picture  on 
one  side.  But  there  was  no  more  to  be  seen  than  a  cracked 
panel,  which,  it  seemed  to  her,  had  once  been  nearer  the 
door.  She  rapped  upon  this,  but  it  gave  back  the  dull 
sound  as  of  wood  against  stone. 

She  turned  to  the  young  man,  smiling.     He  smiled  back. 

"  Come  into  the  bedroom,  mistress." 

He  led  her  in  there,  through  the  passage  outside  into 


202  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

which  the  two  doors  opened  at  the  head  of  the  outside 
stairs;  but  here,  too,  all  that  she  could  see  was  that  a  tall 
press  that  had  once  stood  between  the  windows  now  stood 
against  the  wall  immediately  opposite  f,o  the  painted  panel 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  She  opened  the  doors  of  the 
press,  but  it  was  as  it  had  always  been:  there  even  hung 
there  the  three  or  four  dresses  that  she  had  taken  from  it 
last  night  and  laid  on  the  bed. 

She  laughed  outright,  and,  turning,  saw  Mistress  Alice 
Babington  beaming  tranquilly  from  the  door  of  the  room. 

"  Come  in,  Alice,"  she  said,  "  and  see  this  miracle." 

Then  he  began  to  explain  it. 

On  this  side  was  the  entrance  proper,  and,  as  he  said  so, 
he  stepped  up  into  the  press  and  closed  the  doors.  They 
could  hear  him  fumbling  within,  then  the  sound  of  wood 
sliding,  and  finally  a  muffled  voice  calling  to  them.  Mar- 
jorie  flung  the  doors  open,  and,  save  for  the  dresses,  it  way 
empty.  She  stared  in  for  a  moment,  still  hearing  the  move- 
ments1 of  someone  beyond,  and  at  last  the  sound  of  a  snap ; 
and  as  she  withdrew  her  head  to  exclaim  to  Alice,  the 
young  man  walked  into  the  room  through  the  open  door 
behind  her. 

Then  he  explained  it  in  full. 

The  back  of  the  press  had  been  removed,  and  then  re- 
placed, in  such  a  manner  that  it  would  slide  out  about 
eighteen  inches  towards  the  window,  but  only  when  the 
doors  of  the  press  were  closed;  when  they  were  opened, 
they  drew  out  simultaneously  a  slip  of  wood  on  either 
side  that  pulled  the  sliding  door  tight  and  immovable.  Be- 
hind the  back  of  the  press,  thus  removed,  a  corresponding 
part  of  the  wainscot  slid  in  the  same  way,  giving  a  narrow 
doorway  into  the  cell  which  he  had  excavated  between  the 
double  beams  of  the  thick  wall.  Next,  when  the  person 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  203 

that  had  taken  refuge  was  inside,  with  the  two  sliding 
doors  closed  behind  him,  it  was  possible  for  him,  by  an 
extremely  simple  device,  to  turn  a  wooden  button  and  thus 
release  a  little  wooden  machinery  which  controlled  a  further 
opening  into  the  parlour,  and  which,  at  the  same  time,  was 
braced  against  the  hollow  panelling  and  one  of  the  higher 
beams  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  it,  when  knocked  upon, 
the  dullness  of  sound  the  girl  had  noticed  just  now.  But 
this  door  could  only  be  opened  from  within.  Neither  a 
fugitive  nor  a  pursuer  could  make  any  entrance  from  the 
parlour  side,  unless  the  wainscoting  itself  were  torn  off. 
Lastly,  the  crack  in  the  woodwork,  corresponding  with  two 
minute  holes  bored  in  the  painted  panel,  afforded,  when  the 
picture  was  hung  exactly  straight,  a  view  of  the  parlour 
that  commanded  nearly  all  the  room. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  that  it  is  a  fortress,"  said  the  young 
man,  smiling  gravely.  "  But  it  may  serve  to  keep  out  a 
country  constable.  And,  indeed,  it  is  the  best  I  can  con- 
trive in  this  house." 


CHAPTER  VII 


MARJORIE  found  it  curious,  even  to  herself,  how  the  press 
that  faced  the  foot  of  the  two  beds  where  she  and  Alice 
slept  side  by  side,  became  associated  in  her  mind  with  the 
thought  of  Robin;  and  she  began  to  perceive  that  it  was 
largely  with  the  thought  of  him  in  her  intention  that  the 
idea  had  first  presented  itself  of  having  the  cell  constructed 
at  all.  It  was  not  that  in  her  deliberate  mind  she  conceived 
that  he  would  be  hunted,  that  he  would  fly  here,  that  she 
would  save  him;  but  rather  in  that  strange  realm  of  con- 
sciousness which  is  called  sometimes  the  Imagination,  and 
sometimes  by  other  names — that  inner  shadow-show  on 
which  move  figures  cast  by  the  two  worlds — she  perceived 
him  in  this  place.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  following  winter  that  she  was  reminded  of 
him  by  other  means  than  those  of  his  letters. 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  passed  tranquilly  enough, 
so  far  as  this  outlying  corner  of  England  was  concerned. 
News  filtered  through  of  the  stirring  world  outside,  and 
especially  was  there  conveyed  to  her,  through  Alice  for  the 
most  part,  news  that  concerned  the  fortunes  of  Catholics. 
Politics,  except  in  this  connection,  meant  little  enough  to 
such  as  her.  She  heard,  indeed,  from  time  to  time  vague 
rumours  of  fighting,  and  of  foreign  Powers;  and  thought 
now  and  again  of  Spain,  as  of  a  country  that  might  yet 
be,  in  God's  hand,  an  instrument  for  the  restoring  of  God's 
cause  in  England;  she  had  heard,  too,  in  this  year,  of  one 
more  rumour  of  the  Queen's  marriage  with  the  Duke 

804 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  205 

d'Alen£on,  and  then  of  its  final  rupture.  But  these  matters 
were  aloof  from  her;  rather  she  pondered  such  things  as 
the  execution  of  two  more  priests  at  York  in  August,  Mr. 
Lacy  and  Mr.  Kirkman,  and  of  a  third,  Mr.  Thompson,  in 
November  at  the  same  place.  It  was  on  such  affairs  as 
these  that  she  pondered  as  she  went  about  her  household 
business,  or  sat  in  the  chamber  upstairs  with  Mistress  Alice ; 
and  it  was  of  these  things  that  she  talked  with  the  few 
priests  that  came  and  went  from  time  to  time  in  their  cir- 
cuits about  Derbyshire.  It  was  a  life  of  quietness  and 
monotony  inconceivable  by  those  who  live  in  towns.  Its 
sole  incident  lay  in  that  life  which  is  called  Interior.  .  .  . 
It  was  soon  after  the  New  Year  that  she  met  the  squire 
of  Matstead  face  to  face. 

She  and  Alice,  with  Janet  and  a  man  riding  behind,  were 
on  their  way  back  from  Derby,  where  they  had  gone  for 
their  monthly  shopping.  They  had  slept  at  Dethick,  and 
had  had  news  there  of  Mr.  Anthony,  who  was  again  in  the 
south  on  one  of  his  mysterious  missions,  and  started  again 
soon  after  dawn  next  day  to  reach  home,  if  they  could,  for 
dinner. 

She  knew  Alice  now  for  what  she  was — a  woman  of  as- 
tounding dullness,  of  sterling  character,  and  of  a  complete 
inability  to  understand  any  shades  or  tones  of  character  or 
thought  that  were  not  her  own,  and  yet  a  friend  in  a 
thousand,  of  an  immovable  stability  and  loyalty,  one  of 
no  words  at  all,  who  dwelt  in  the  midst  of  a  steady  kind  of 
light  which  knew  no  dawn  nor  sunset.  The  girl  enter- 
tained herself  sometimes  with  conceiving  of  her  friend  con- 
fronted with  the  rack,  let  us  say,  or  the  gallows;  and  per- 
ceived that  she  knew  with  exactness  what  her  behaviour 
would  be:  She  would  do  all  that  was  required  of  her  with- 
out speeches  or  protest;  she  would  place  herself  in  the  re- 


206  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

quired  positions,  with  a  faint  smile,  unwavering;  she  would 
suffer  or  die  with  the  same  tranquil  steadiness  as  that  in 
which  she  lived;  and,  best  of  all,  she  would  not  be  aware, 
even  for  an  instant,  that  anything  in  her  behaviour  was  in 
the  least  admirable  or  exceptional.  She  resembled,  to 
Marjorie's  mind,  that  for  which  a  strong  and  well-built 
arm-chair  stands1  in  relation  to  the  body:  it  is  the  same 
always,  supporting  and  sustaining  always,  and  cannot  even 
be  imagined  as  anything  else. 

It  was  a  brilliant  frosty  day,  as  they  rode  over  the  rutted 
track  between  hedges  that  served  for  a  road,  that  ran,  for 
the  most  part,  a  field  or  two  away  from  the  black  waters  of 
the  Derwent.  The  birches  stood  about  them  like  frozen 
feathers ;  the  vast  chestnuts  towered  overhead,  motionless 
in  the  motionless  air.  As  they  came  towards  Matstead, 
and,  at  last,  rode  up  the  street,  naturally  enough  Marjorie 
again  began  to  think  of  Robin.  As  they  came  near  where 
the  track  turned  the  corner  beneath  the  churchyard  wall, 
where  once  Robin  had  watched,  himself  unseen,  the  three 
riders  go  by,  she  had  to  attend  to  her  horse,  who  slipped 
once  or  twice  on  the  paved  causeway.  Then  as  she  lifted 
her  head  again,  she  saw,  not  three  yards  from  her,  and  on 
a  level  with  her  own  face,  the  face  of  the  squire  looking  at 
her  from  over  the  wall. 

She  had  not  seen  him,  except  once  in  Derby,  a  year  or 
two  before,  and  that  at  a  distance,  since  Robin  had  left 
England ;  and  at  the  sight  she  started  so  violently,  in  some 
manner  jerking  the  reins  that  she  held,  that  her  horse,  tired 
with  the  long  ride  of  the  day  before,  slipped  once  again, 
and  came  down  all  asprawl  on  the  stones,  fortunately  throw- 
ing her  clear  of  his  struggling  feet.  She  was  up  in  a  mo- 
ment, but  again  sank  down,  aware  that  her  foot  was  in 
some  way  bruised  or  twisted. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  207 

There  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs  behind  her  as  the  servants 
rode  up;  a  child  or  two  ran  up  the  street,  and  when,  at 
last,  on  Janet's  arm,  she  rose  again  to  her  feet,  it  was  to 
see  the  squire  staring  at  her,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back. 

"  Bring  the  ladies  up  to  the  house,"  he  said  abruptly  to 
the  man;  and  then,  taking  the  rein  of  the  girl's  horse  that 
had  struggled  up  again,  he  led  the  way,  without  another 
word,  without  even  turning  his  head,  round  to  the  way  that 
ran  up  to  his  gates. 

II 

It  was  not  with  any  want  of  emotion  that  Marjorie  found 
herself  presently  meekly  seated  upon  Alice's  horse,  and 
riding  up  at  a  foot's-pace  beneath  the  gatehouse  of  the 
Hall.  Rather  it  was  the  balance  of  emotions  that  made  her 
so  meek  and  so  obedient  to  her  friend's  tranquil  assumption 
that  she  must  come  in  as  the  squire  said.  She  was  aware 
of  a  strong  resentment  to  his  brusque  order,  as  well  as  to 
the  thought  that  it  was  to  the  house  of  an  apostate  that 
she  was  going;  yet  there  was  a  no  less  strong  emotion 
within  her  that  he  had  a  sort  of  right  to  command  her. 
These  feelings,  working  upon  her,  dazed  as  she  was  by  the 
sudden  sharpness  of  her  fall,  and  the  pain  in  her  foot, 
combined  to  drive  her  along  in  a  kind  of  resignation  in 
the  wake  of  the  squire. 

Still  confused,  yet  with  a  rapid  series  of  these  same  emo- 
tions running  before  her  mind,  she  limped  up  the  steps, 
supported  by  Alice  and  her  maid,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 
at  the  end  of  the  hall.  The  squire,  who  had  shouted  an 
order  or  two  to  a  peeping  domestic,  as  he  passed  up  the 
court,  came  to  her  immediately  with  a  cup  in  his  hand. 

"  You  must  drink  this  at  once,  mistress." 


208  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

She  took  it  at  once,  drank  and  set  it  down,  aware  of  the 
keen,  angry-looking  face  that  watched  her. 

"  You  will  dine  here,  too,  mistress "  he  began,  still 

with  a  sharp  kindness.  .  .  .  And  then,  on  a  sudden,  all 
grew  dark  about  her;  there  was  a  roaring  in  her  ears,  and 
she  fainted. 

She  came  out  of  her  swoon  again,  after  a  while,  with 
that  strange  and  innocent  clearness  that  usually  follows 
such  a  thing,  to  find  Alice  beside  her,  a  tapestried  wall  be- 
hind Alice,  and  the  sound  of  a  crackling  fire  in  her  ears. 
Then  she  perceived  that  she  was  in  a  small  room,  lying  on 
her  back  along  a  bench,  and  that  someone  was  bathing  her 
foot. 

"  I  ...  I  will  not  stay  here "  she  began.  But 

two  hands  held  her  firmly  down,  and  Alice's  reassuring 
face  was  looking  into  her  own. 

When  her  mind  ran  clearly  again,  she  sat  up  with  a 
sudden  movement,  drawing  her  foot  away  from  Janet's 
ministrations. 

"  I  do  very  well,"  she  said,  after  looking  at  her  foot, 
and  then  putting  it  to  the  ground  amid  a  duet  of  protesta- 
tions. (She  had  looked  round  the  room  to  satisfy  herself 
that  no  one  else  was  there,  and  had  seen  that  it  must  be 
the  parlour  that  she  was  in.  A  newly-lighted  fire  burned 
on  the  hearth,  and  the  two  doors  were  closed.) 

Then  Alice  explained. 

It  was  impossible,  she  said,  to  ride  on  at  once;  the  horse 
even  now  was  being  bathed  in  the  stable,  as  his  mistress 
In  the  parlour.  The  squire  had  been  most  considerate; 
he  had  helped  to  carry  her  in  here  just  now,  had  lighted  the 
fire  with  his  own  hands,  and  had  stated  that  dinner  would 
be  sent  in  here  in  an  hour  for  the  three  women.  He  had 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  209 

offered  to  send  one  of  his  own  men  on  to  Booth's  Edge  with 
the  news,  if  Mistress  Marjorie  found  herself  unable  to  ride 
on  after  dinner. 

"But  .  .  .  but  it  is  Mr.  Audrey!"  exclaimed  Marjorie. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Alice.  "  I  know  it  is.  But  that 
does  not  mend  your  foot,"  she  said,  with  unusual  curtness. 
And  Marjorie  saw  that  she  still  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

The  three  women  dined  together,  of  course,  in  an  hour's 
time.  There  was  no  escape  from  the  pressure  of  circum- 
stance. It  was  unfortunate  that  such  an  accident  should 
have  fallen  out  here,  in  the  one  place  in  all  the  world  where 
it  should  not;  but  the  fact  was  a  fact.  Meanwhile,  it  was 
not  only  resentment  that  Marjorie  felt:  it  was  a  strange 
sort  of  terror  as  well — a  terror  of  sitting  in  the  house  of  an 
apostate — of  one  who  had  freely  and  deliberately  renounced 
that  faith  for  which  she  herself  lived  so  completely;  and 
that  it  was  the  father  of  one  whom  she  knew  as  she  knew 
Robin — with  whose  fate,  indeed,  her  own  had  been  so  inti- 
mately entwined — this  combined  to  increase  that  indefin- 
able fear  that  rested  on  her  as  she  stared  round  the 
walls,  and  sat  over  the  food  and  drink  that  this  man 
provided. 

The  climax  came  as  they  were  finishing  dinner:  for  the 
door  from  the  hall  opened  abruptly,  and  the  squire  came 
in.  He  bowed  to  the  ladies,  as  the  manner  was,  straighten- 
ing his  trim,  tight  figure  again  defiantly;  asked  a  civil 
question  or  two;  directed  a  servant  behind  him  to  bring 
the  horses  to  the  parlour  door  in  half  an  hour's  time;  and 
then  snapped  out  the  sentence  which  he  was,  plainly,  impa- 
tient to  speak. 

"  Mistress  Manners,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  have  a  word 
with  you  privately." 

Marjorie,  trembling  at  his  presence,  turned  a  wavering 


210  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

face  to  her  friend;  and  Alice,  before  the  other  could  speak, 
rose  up,  and  went  out,  with  Janet  following. 

"  Janet "  cried  the  girl. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  the  old  man,  with  such  a  decisive 
air  that  she  hesitated.  Then  she  nodded  at  her  maid;  and 
a  moment  later  the  door  closed. 


Ill 

"  I  have  two  matters1  to  speak  of,"  said  the  squire 
abruptly,  sitting  down  in  the  chair  that  Alice  had  left; 
"  the  first  concerns  you  closely ;  and  the  other  less  closely." 

She  looked  at  him,  summoning  all  her  power  to  appear 
at  her  ease. 

He  seemed  far  older  than  when  she  had  last  spoken  with 
him,  perhaps  five  years  ago ;  and  had  grown  a  little  pointed 
beard ;  his  hair,  too,  seemed  thinner — such  of  it  as  she  could 
see  beneath  the  house-cap  that  he  wore;  his  face,  especially 
about  his  blue,  angry-looking  eyes,  was  covered  with  fine 
wrinkles,  and  his  hands  were  clearly  the  hands  of  an  old 
man,  at  once  delicate  and  sinewy.  He  was  in  a  dark  suit, 
still  with  his  cloak  upon  him;  and  in  low  boots.  He  sat 
still  as  upright  as  ever,  turned  a  little  in  his  chair,  so  as 
to  clasp  its  back  with  one  strong  hand. 

"Yes,  sir?"  she  said. 

"  I  will  begin  with  the  second  first.  It  is  of  my  son 
Robin:  I  wish  to  know  what  news  you  have  of  him.  He 
hath  not  written  to  me  this  six  months  back.  And  I  hear 
that  letters  sometimes  come  to  you  from  him." 

Marjorie  hesitated. 

"  He  is  very  well,  so  far  as  I  know,"  she  said. 

"And  when  is  he  to  be  made  priest?"  he  demanded 
sharply. 

Marjorie  drew  a  breath  to  give  herself  time;  she  knew 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  211 

that  she  must  not  answer  this;  and  did  not  know  how  to 
say  so  with  civility. 

"  If  he  has  not  told  you  himself,  sir/'  she  said,  "  I  can- 
not." 

The  old  man's  face  twitched;  but  he  kept  his  manners. 

"  I  understand  you,  mistress.  .  .  ."  But  then  his  wrath 
overcame  him.  "  But  he  must  understand  he  will  have  no 
mercy  from  me,  if  he  comes  my  way.  I  am  a  magistrate, 
now,  mistress,  and " 

A  thought  like  an  inspiration  came  to  the  girl;  and  she 
interrupted;  for  she  longed  to  penetrate  this  man's  armour. 

"  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  did  not  tell  you  when  he  was 
to  be  made  priest,"  she  said. 

The  other  seemed  taken  aback. 

"  Why,  but " 

"  He  did  not  wish  to  think  that  his  father  would  be  un- 
true to  his  new  commission,"  she  said,  trembling  at  her 
boldness  and  yet  exultant  too ;  and  taking  no  pains  to  keep 
the  irony  out  of  her  voice. 

Again  that  fierce  twitch  of  the  features  went  over  the 
other's  face ;  and  he  stared  straight  at  her  with  narrowed 
eyes.  Then  a  change  again  came  over  him;  and  he 
laughed,  like  barking,  yet  not  all  unkindly. 

"  You  are  very  shrewd,  mistress.  But  I  wonder  what 
you  will  think  of  me  when  I  tell  you  the  second  matter, 
since  you  will  tell  me  no  more  of  the  first." 

He  shifted  his  position  in  his  chair,  this  time  clasping 
both  his  hands  together  over  the  back. 

"  Well ;  it  is  this  in  a  word,"  he  said :  "  It  is  that  you 
had  best  look  to  yourself,  mistress.  My  lord  Shrewsbury 
even  knows  of  it." 

"  Of  what,  if  you  please  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  hoping  she 
had  not  turned  white. 

"  Why,  of  the  priests  that  come  and  go  hereabouts !     It 


212  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

is  all  known;  and  her  Grace  hath  sent  a  message  from  the 
Council " 

"  What  has  this  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

He  laughed  again. 

"Well;  let  us  take  your  neighbours  at  Padley.  They 
will  be  in  trouble  if  they  do  not  look  to  their  goings.  Mr. 
FitzHerbert " 

But  again  she  interrupted  him.  She  was  determined  to 
know  how  much  he  knew.  She  had  thought  that  she  had 
been  discreet  enough,  and  that  no  news  had  leaked  out  of 
her  own  entertaining  of  priests;  it  was  chiefly  that  discre- 
tion might  be  preserved  that  she  had  set  her  hands  to  the 
work  at  all.  With  Padley  so  near  it  was  thought  that  less 
suspicion  would  be  aroused.  Her  name  had  never  yet  come 
before  the  authorities,  so  far  as  she  knew. 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  me,  sir  ?  "  she  asked 
sharply.  "  It  is  true  that  I  do  not  go  to  church,  and  that 
I  pay  my  fines  when  they  are  demanded.  Are  there  new 
laws,  then,  against  the  old  faith  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  something  of  real  bitterness.  It  was 
genuine  enough;  her  only  art  lay  in  her  not  concealing  it; 
for  she  was  determined  to  press  her  question  home.  And, 
in  his  shrewd,  compelling  face,  she  read  her  answer  even 
before  his  words  gave  it. 

"  Well,  mistress ;  it  was  not  of  you  that  I  meant  to  speak 
— so  much  as  of  your  friends.  They  are  your  friends,  not 
mine.  And  as  your  friends,  I  thought  it  to  be  a  kindly 
action  to  send  them  an  advertisement.  If  they  are  not 
careful,  there  will  be  trouble." 

"  At  Padley  ?  " 

"  At  Padley,  or  elsewhere.  It  is  the  persons  that  fall 
under  the  law,  not  places !  " 

"  But,  sir,  you  are  a  magistrate ;  and " 

He  sprang  up,  bis  face  aflame  with  real  wrath. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  213 

"  Yes,  mistress ;  I  ain  a  magistrate :  the  commission  hath 
come  at  last,  after  six  months'  waiting.  But  I  was  friend 
to  the  FitzHerberts  before  ever  I  was  a  magistrate, 
and " 

Then  she  understood;  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him. 
She,  too,  stood  up,  catching  at  the  table  with  a  hiss  of  pain 
as  she  threw  her  weight  on  the  bruised  foot.  He  made  a 
movement  towards  her;  but  she  waved  him  aside. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Audrey,  with  all  my  heart.  I 
had  thought  that  you  meant  harm,  perhaps,  to  my  friends 
and  me.  But  now  I  see " 

"  Not  a  word  more !  not  a  word  more !  "  he  cried  harshly, 
with  a  desperate  kind  of  gesture.  "  I  shall  do  my  duty  none 
the  less  when  the  time  comes " 

"  Sir !  "  she  cried  out  suddenly.  "  For  God's  sake  do 
not  speak  of  duty — there  is  another  duty  greater  than  that. 
Mr.  Audrey " 

He  wheeled  away  from  her,  with  a  movement  she  could 
not  interpret.  It  might  be  uncontrolled  anger  or  misery, 
equally.  And  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  one  great  flood. 

"  Mr.  Audrey.     It  is  not  too  late.    Your  son  Robin " 

Then  he  wheeled  again;  and  his  face  was  distorted  with 
emotion. 

"  Yes,  my  son  Robin !  my  son  Robin !  .  .  .  How  dare 
you  speak  of  him  to  me?  ...  Yes;  that  is  it — my  son 
Robin — my  son  Robin !  " 

He  dropped  into  the  chair  again,  and  his  face  fell  upon 
bis  clasped  hands. 

IV 

She  scarcely  knew  how  circumstances  had  arranged  them- 
selves up  to  the  time  when  she  found  herself  riding  away 
again  with  Alice,  while  a  man  of  Mr.  Audrey's  led  her 


214  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

horse.  They  could  not  talk  freely  till  he  left  them  at  the 
place  where  the  stony  road  turned  to  a  soft  track,  and  it 
was  safe  going  once  more.  Then  Alice  told  her  own  side 
of  it. 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  I  heard  him  call  out.  I  was  walking 
in  the  hall  with  Janet  to  keep  ourselves  warm.  But  when 
I  ran  in  he  was  sitting  down,  and  you  were  standing.  What 
was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Alice,"  said  the  girl  earnestly,  "  I  wish  you  had  not 
come  in.  He  is  very  heart-broken,  I  think.  He  would 
have  told  me  more,  I  think.  It  is  about  his  son." 

"  His  son !     Why,  he " 

"  Yes ;  I  know  that.  And  he  would  not  see  him  if  he 
came  back.  He  has  had  his  magistrate's  commission;  and 
he  will  be  true  to  it.  But  he  is  heart-broken  for  all  that. 
He  has  not  really  lost  the  Faith,  I  think." 

"  Why,  my  dear ;  that  is  foolish.  He  is  very  hot  in 
Derby,  I  hear,  against  the  Papists.  There  was  a  poor 
woman  who  could  not  pay  her  fines;  and " 

Marjorie  waved  it  aside. 

"  Yes ;  he  would  be  very  hot ;  but  for  all  that,  there  is 
his  son  Robin  you  know — and  his  memories.  And  Robin 
has  not  written  to  him  for  six  months.  That  would  be 
about  the  time  when  he  told  him  he  was  to  be  a  magistrate." 

Then  Marjorie  told  her  of  the  whole  that  had  passed, 
and  of  his  mention  of  the  Fitz  Herberts. 

"  And  what  he  meant  by  that/'  she  said,  "  I  do  not  know ; 
but  I  will  tell  them." 

She  was  pondering  deeply  all  the  way  as  she  rode  home. 
Mistress  Alice  was  one  of  those  folks  who  so  long  as  they 
are  answered  in  words  are  content;  and  Marjorie  so 
answered  her.  And  all  the  while  she  thought  upon  Robin, 
and  his  passionate  old  father,  and  attempted  to  understand 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  215 

the  emotions  that  fought  in  the  heart  that  had  so  disclosed 
itself  to  her — its  aged  obstinacy,  its  loyalty  and  its  confused 
honourableness.  She  knew  very  well  that  he  would  do 
what  he  conceived  to  be  his  duty  with  all  the  more  zeal  if  it 
were  an  unpleasant  duty;  and  she  thanked  God  that  it  was 
not  for  a  good  while  yet  that  the  lad  would  come  home  A 
priest 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  warning  which  she  had  had  with  regard  to  her  friendsj 
and  which  she  wrote  on  to  them  at  once,  received  its  ful- 
filment within  a  very  few  weeks.  Mr.  John,  who  was  on 
the  eve  of  departure  for  London  again  to  serve  his  brother 
there,  who  was  back  again  in  the  Fleet  by  now,  wrote  that 
he  knew  very  well  that  they  were  all  under  suspicion,  that 
he  had  sent  on  to  his  son  the  message  she  had  given,  but 
that  he  hoped  they  would  yet  weather  the  storm. 

"And  as  to  yourself,  Mistress  Marjorie,"  he  wrote, 
"  this  makes  it  all  the  more  necessary  that  Booth's  Edge 
should  not  be  suspected ;  for  what  will  our  men  do  if  Padley 
be  closed  to  them?  You  have  heard  of  our  friend  Mr. 
Garlick's  capture?  But  that  was  no  fault  of  yours.  The 
man  was  warned.  I  hear  that  they  will  send  him  into 
banishment,  only,  this  time." 

The  news  came  to  her  as  she  sat  in  the  garden  over  her 
needlework  on  a  hot  evening  in  June.  There  it  was  as  cool 
as  anywhere  in  the  countryside.  She  sat  at  the  top  of  the 
garden,  where  her  mother  and  she  had  sat  with  Robin  so 
long  before;  the  breeze  that  came  over  the  moor  bore  with 
it  the  scent  of  the  heather;  and  the  bees  were  busy  in  the 
garden  flowers  about  her. 

It  was  first  the  gallop  of  a  horse  that  she  heard;  and 
even  at  that  sound  she  laid  down  her  work  and  stood  up. 
But  the  house  below  her  blocked  the  most  of  her  view ;  and 
she  sat  down  again  when  she  heard  the  dull  rattle  of  the 
hoofs  die  away  again.  When  she  next  looked  up  a  man 

216 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  217 

was  running  towards  her  from  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
and  Janet  was  peeping  behind  him  from  the  gate  into  the 
court.  As  she  again  stood  up,  she  saw  that  it  was  Dick 
Sampson. 

He  was  so  out  of  breath,  first  with  his  ride  and  next  with 
his  run  up  the  steep  path,  that  for  a  moment  or  two  he 
could  not  speak.  He  was  dusty,  too,  from  foot  to  knee ;  his 
cap  was  awry  and  his  collar  unbuttoned. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Thomas,  mistress,"  he  gasped  presently.  "  I 
was  in  Derby  and  saw  him  being  taken  to  the  gaol.  ...  I 
could  not  get  speech  with  him.  ...  I  rode  straight  up  to 
Padley,  and  found  none  there  but  the  servants,  and  them 
knowing  nothing  of  the  matter.  And  so  I  rode  on  here, 
mistress." 

He  was  plainly  all  aghast  at  the  blow.  Hitherto  it  had 
been  enough  that  Sir  Thomas  was  in  ward  for  his  religion; 
and  to  this  they  had  become  accustomed.  But  that  the  heir 
should  be  taken,  too,  and  that  without  a  hint  of  what  was 
to  happen,  was  wholly  unexpected.  She  made  him  sit 
down,  and  presently  drew  from  him  the  whole  tale. 

Mr.  Anthony  Babington,  his  master,  was  away  to  Lon- 
don again,  leaving  the  house  in  Derby  in  the  hands  of  the 
servants.  He  then — Dick  Sampson — was  riding  out  early 
to  take  a  horse  to  be  shoed,  and  had  come  back  through 
the  town-square,  when  he  saw  the  group  ride  up  to  the  gaol 
door  near  the  Friar  Gate.  He,  too,  had  ridden  up  to  ask 
what  was  forward,  and  had  been  just  in  time  to  see  Mr. 
Thomas  taken  in.  He  had  caught  his  eye,  but  had  feigned 
not  to  know  him.  Then  the  man  had  attempted  to  get  at 
what  had  happened  from  one  of  the  fellows'  at  the  door, 
but  could  get  no  more  from  him  than  that  the  prisoner  was 
a  known  and  confessed  recusant,  and  had  been  laid  by  the 
heels  according  to  orders,  it  was  believed,  sent  down  by 
the  Council.  Then  Dick  had  ridden  slowly  away  till  he 


218  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

had    turned    the    corner,    and    then,    hot    foot    for    Pad 
ley. 

"  And  I  heard  the  fellow  say  to  one  of  his  company  that 
an  informer  was  coming  down  from  London  on  purpose  t? 
deal  with  Mr.  Thomas." 

Marjorie  felt  a  sudden  pang;  for  she  had  never  forgotten 
the  one  she  had  set  eyes  on  in  the  Tower. 

"  His  name  ?  "  she  said  breathlessly.  "  Did  you  hear 
his  name  ?  " 

"  It  was  Topcliffe,  mistress,"  said  Dick  indifferently. 
"  The  other  called  it  out" 

Marjorie  sat  silent.  Not  only  had  the  blow  fallen  more 
swiftly  than  she  would  have  thought  possible,  but  it  was 
coupled  with  a  second  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed. 
That  it  was  this  man,  above  all  others,  that  should  have 
come;  this  man,  who  stood  to  her  mind,  by  a  mere  chance, 
for  all  that  was  most  dreadful  in  the  sinister  forces  arrayed 
against  her — this  brought  misery  down  on  her  indeed.  For, 
besides  her  own  personal  reasons  for  terror,  there  was, 
besides,  the  knowledge  that  the  bringing  of  such  a  man  at 
all  from  London  on  such  business  meant  that  the  movement 
beginning  here  in  her  own  county  was  not  a  mere  caprice. 

She  sat  silent  then — seeing  once  more  before  her  the  wide 
court  of  the  Tower,  the  great  keep  opposite,  and  in  the 
midst  that  thin  figure  moving  to  his  hateful  business.  .  .  . 
And  she  knew  now,  in  this  instant,  as  never  before,  that 
the  chief  reason  for  her  terror  was  that  she  had  coupled  in 
her  mind  her  own  friend  Robin  with  the  thought  of  this 
man,  as  if  by  some  inner  knowledge  that  their  lives  must 
cross  some  day — a  knowledge  which  she  could  neither 
justify  nor  silence.  Thank  God,  at  least,  that  Robin  was 
still  safe  in  Rheims! 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  219 

II 

She  sent  him  off  after  a  couple  of  hours'  rest,  during 
which  once  more  he  had  told  his  story  to  Mistress  Alice, 
with  a  letter  to  Mr.  Thomas's  wife,  who,  no  doubt,  would 
have  followed  her  lord  to  Derby.  She  had  gone  apart  with 
Alice,  while  Dick  ate  and  drank,  to  talk  the  affair  out,  and 
had  told  her  of  Topcliffe's1  presence,  at  which  news  even 
the  placid  face  of  her  friend  looked  troubled;  but  they  had 
said  nothing  more  on  the  point,  and  had  decided  that  a  letter 
should  be  written  in  Mistress  Babington's  name,  offering 
Mrs.  FitzHerbert  the  hospitality  of  Babington  House,  and 
any  other  services  she  might  wish.  Further,  they  had 
decided  that  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  go  themselves  to 
Derby  next  day,  in  order  to  be  at  hand;  since  Mr.  John 
was  in  London,  and  the  sooner  Mrs.  Thomas  had  friends 
with  her,  the  better. 

"  They  may  keep  him  in  ward  a  long  time,"  said  Mistress 
Alice,  "  before  they  bring  him  into  open  court — to  try  his 
Courage.  That  is  the  way  they  do.  The  charge,  no  doubt, 
will  be  that  he  has  harboured  and  assisted  priests." 

It  seemed  to  Marjorie,  as  she  lay  awake  that  night, 
staring  through  the  summer  dusk  at  the  tall  press  which 
hid  so  much  beside  her  dresses,  that  the  course  on  which 
her  life  moved  was  coming  near  to  the  rapids.  Ever  since 
she  had  first  put  her  hand  to  the  work,  ever  since,  even, 
she  had  first  offered  her  lover  to  God  and  let  him  go  from 
her,  it  appeared  as  if  God  had  taken  her  at  her  word,  and 
accepted  in  an  instant  that  which  she  offered  so  tremblingly. 
Her  sight  of  London — the  great  buildings,  the  crowds,  the 
visible  forces  of  the  Crown,  the  company  of  gallant  gentle- 
men who  were  priests  beneath  their  ruffs  and  feathers,  the 
Tower,  her  glimpse  of  Topcliffe — these  things  had  shown 


220  COME   RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

her  the  dreadful  reality  that  lay  behind  this  gentle 
scheming  up  in  Derbyshire.  Again,  there  was  Mr.  Babing- 
ton;  here,  too,  she  had  perceived  a  mystery  which  she 
could  not  understand:  something  moved  behind  the  surface 
of  which  not  even  Mr.  Babington's  sister  knew  anything, 
except  that,  indeed,  it  was  there.  Again,  there  was  the 
death  of  Father  Campion — the  very  man  whom  she  had 
taken  as  a  symbol  of  the  Faith  for  which  she  fought  with 
her  woman's  wits;  there  was  the  news  that  came  so  sud- 
denly and  terribly  now  and  again,  of  one  more  priest  gone 
to  his  death.  ...  It  was  like  the  slow  rising  of  a  storm: 
the  air  darkens ;  a  stillness  falls  on  the  countryside ;  the 
chirp  of  the  birds  seems  as  a  plaintive  word  of  fear;  then 
the  thunder  begins — a  low  murmur  far  across  the  horizons; 
then  a  whisk  of  light,  seen  and  gone  again,  and  another 
murmur  after  it.  And  so  it  gathers,  dusk  on  dusk,  stillness 
on  stillness,  murmur  on  murmur,  deepening  and  thicken- 
ing; yet  still  no  rain,  but  a  drop  or  two  that  falls  and 
ceases  again.  And  from  the  very  delay  it  is  all  the  more 
dreadful;  for  the  storm  itself  must  break  some  time,  and 
the  artillery  war  in  the  heavens,  and  the  rain  rush  down, 
and  flash  follow  flash,  and  peal  peal,  and  the  climax  come. 

So,  then,  it  was  with  her.  There  was  no  drawing  back 
now,  even  had  she  wished  it.  And  she  wished  it  indeed, 
though  she  did  not  will  it;  she  knew  that  she  must  stand 
in  her  place,  now  more  than  ever,  when  the  blow  had  fallen 
so  near.  Now  more  than  ever  must  she  be  discreet  and 
resolute,  since  Padley  itself  was  fallen,  in  effect,  if  not  in 
fact;  and  Booth's  Edge,  in  this  valley  at  least,  was  the  one 
hope  of  hunted  men.  She  must  stand,  then,  in  her  place; 
she  must  plot  and  conspire  and  scheme;  she  must  govern 
her  face  and  her  manner  more  perfectly  than  ever,  for  the 
sake  of  that  tremendous  Cause. 

As  she  lay  there,  listening  to  her  friend's  breathing  fm 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  221 

the  darkness,  staring  now  at  the  doors  of  the  press,  now  at 
the  baggage  that  lay  heaped  ready  for  the  early  start,  these 
and  a  thousand  other  thoughts  passed  before  her.  It  was 
a  long  plot  that  had  ended  in  this:  it  must  have  reached 
its  maturity  weeks  ago;  the  decision  to  strike  must  have 
been  reached  before  even  Squire  Audrey  had  given  her  the 
warning — for  it  was  only  by  chance  that  she  had  met  him 
and  he  had  told  her.  .  .  .  And  he,  too,  Robin's  father, 
would  be  in  the  midst  of  it  all ;  he,  too,  that  was  a  Catholic 
by  baptism,  must  sit  with  the  other  magistrates  and  threaten 
and  cajole  as  the  manner  was;  and  quiet  Derby  would  be  all 
astir;  and  the  Bassetts  would  be  there,  and  Mr.  Fenton,  to 
see  how  tEeir  friend  fared  in  the  dock;  and  the  crowds 
would  gather  to  see  the  prisoner  brought  out,  and  the  hunt 
would  be  up.  Arid  she  herself,  she,  too,  must  be  there  with 
the  tearful  little  wife,  who  could  do  so  little.  .  .  . 
Thank  God  Robin  was  safe  in  Rheims!  .  .  . 


Ill 

Derby  was,  indeed,  astir  as  they  rode  in,  with  the  serv- 
ants and  the  baggage  following  behind,  on  the  late  after- 
noon of  the  next  day.  They  had  ridden  by  easy  stages, 
halting  at  Dethick  for  dinner,  where  the  Babingtons'  house 
already  hummed  with  dismay  at  the  news  that  had  come 
from  Derby  last  night.  Mr.  Anthony  was  away,  and  all 
seemed  distracted. 

They  rode  in  by  the  North  road,  seeing  for  the  last  mile 
or  two  of  their  ride  the  towering  spire  of  All  Saints' 
Church  high  above  the  smoke  of  the  houses ;  they  passed  the 
old  bridge  half  a  mile  from  the  market-place,  near  the 
ancient  camp;  and  even  here  overheard  a  sentence  or  two 
from  a  couple  of  fellows  that  were  leaning  on  the  parapet, 
that  told  them  what  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  It  was 


222  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

plain  that  others  besides  the  Catholics  understood  the 
taking  of  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert  to  be  a  very  signifi- 
cant matter. 

Babington  House  stood  on  the  further  side  of  the  market- 
place from  that  on  which  they  entered,  and  Alice  was  for 
going  there  through  side  streets. 

"  They  will  take  notice  if  we  go  straight  through/'  she 
said.  "  It  is  cheese-market  to-day." 

"  They  will  take  notice  in  any  case/'  said  Marjorie.  "  It 
will  be  over  the  town  to-morrow  that  Mistress  Babington  is 
here,  and  it  is  best,  therefore,  to  come  openly,  as  if  without 
fear." 

And  she  turned  to  beckon  the  servants  to  draw  up  closer 
behind. 

The  square  was  indeed  crowded  as  they  came  in.  From 
all  the  country  round,  and  especially  from  Dovedale,  the 
farmers  came  in  on  this  day,  or  sent  their  wives,  for  the 
selling  of  cheeses;  and  the  small  oblong  of  the  market — 
the  smaller  from  its  great  Conduit  and  Cross — was  full 
with  rows  of  stalls  and  carts,  with  four  lanes  only  left  along 
the  edges  by  which  the  traffic  might  pass ;  and  even  here  the 
streams'  of  passengers  forced  the  horses  to  go  in  single  file. 
Groups  of  men — farmers'  servants  who  had  driven  in  the 
carts,  or  walked  with  the  pack-beasts — to  whom  this  day 
was  a  kind  of  feast,  stood  along  the  edges  of  the  booths 
eyeing  all  who  went  by.  The  inns,  too,  were  doing  a  roar- 
ing trade,  and  it  was  from  one  of  these  that  the  only 
offensive  comment  was  made. 

Mistress  Babington  rode  first,  as  suited  her  dignity,  pre- 
ceded by  one  of  the  Dethick  men  whom  they  had  taken  up 
on  their  way,  and  who  had  pushed  forward  when  they  came 
into  the  town  to  clear  the  road ;  and  Mistress1  Manners  rode 
after  her.  The  men  stood  aside  as  the  cavalcade  be«an  to 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  223 

go  between  the  booths,  and  the  most  of  them  saluted  Mis- 
tress Babington.  But  as  they  were  almost  out  of  the  market 
they  came  abreast  one  of  the  inns  from  whose  wide-open 
doors  came  a  roar  of  voices  from  those  that  were  drinking 
within,  and  a  group  that  was  gathered  on  the  step  stopped 
talking  as  the  party  came  up.  Marjorie  glanced  at  them, 
and  noticed  there  was  an  air  about  two  or  three  of  the  men 
that  was  plainly  town-bred;  there  was  a  certain  difference 
in  the  cut  of  their  clothes  and  the  way  they  wore  them. 
Then  she  saw  two  or  three  whispering  together,  and  the 
next  moment  came  a  brutal  shout.  She  could  not  catch 
the  sentence,  but  she  heard  the  word  "  Papist "  with  an 
adjective,  and  caught  the  unmistakable  bullying  tone  of 
the  man.  The  next  instant  there  broke  out  a  confusion: 
a  man  dashed  up  the  step  from  the  crowd  beneath,  and  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Dick  Sampson's  furious  face.  Then 
the  group  bore  back,  fighting,  into  the  inn  door ;  the  Dethick 
servant  leapt  off  his  horse,  leaving  it  in  some  fellow's  hands, 
and  vanished  up  the  step;  there  was  a  rush  of  the  crowd 
after  him,  and  then  the  way  was  clear  in  front,  over  the 
little  bridge  that  spanned  Bramble  brook. 

When  she  drew  level  with  Alice,  she  saw  her  friend's 
face,  pale  and  agitated. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  cried  at,"  she  said. 
"  Come ;  we  are  nearly  home.  There  is  St.  Peter's  spire." 

"  Shall  we  not ?  "  began  Marjorie. 

"  No,  no  "  (and  the  pale  face  tightened  suddenly).  "  My 
fellows  will  give  them  a  lesson.  The  crowd  is  on  our  side 
as  yet." 

IV 

As  they  rode  in  under  the  archway  that  led  in  beside  the 
great  doors  of  Babington  House,  three  or  four  grooms  ran 


224  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

forward  at  once.  It  was  plain  that  their  coming  was  looked 
for  with  some  eagerness. 

Alice's  manner  seemed  curiously  different  from  that  of 
the  quiet  woman  who  had  sat  so  patiently  beside  Marjorie 
in  the  manor  among  the  hills:  a  certain  air  of  authority 
and  dignity  sat  on  her  now  that  she  was  back  in  her  own 
place. 

"Is  Mrs.  FitzHerbert  here?"  she  asked  from  the 
groom  who  helped  her  to  the  ground. 

"  Yes,  mistress ;  she  came  from  the  inn  this  morning, 
and " 

"Well?" 

"  She  is  in  a  great  taking,  mistress.  She  would  eat 
nothing,  they  said." 

Alice  nodded. 

"  You  had  best  be  off  to  the  inn,"  she  said,  with  a  jerk 
of  her  head.  "  A  London  fellow  insulted  us  just  now,  and 
Sampson  and  Mallow " 

She  said  no  more.  The  man  who  held  her  horse  slipped 
the  reins  into  the  hands  of  the  younger  groom  who  stood  by 
him,  and  was  away  and  out  of  the  court  in  an  instant. 
Marjorie  smiled  a  little,  astonished  at  her  own  sense  of 
exultation.  The  blows  were  not  to  be  all  one  side,  she 
perceived.  Then  she  followed  Alice  into  the  house. 

As  they  came  through  into  the  hall  by  the  side-door  that 
led  through  from  the  court  where  they  had  dismounted,  a 
figure  was  plainly  visible  in  the  dusky  light,  going  to  and 
fro  at  the  further  end,  with  a  quick,  nervous  movement. 
The  figure  stopped  as  they  advanced,  and  then  darted  for- 
ward, crying  out  piteously: 

"  Ah !  you  have  come,  thank  God !  thank  God !  They 
will  not  let  me  see  him." 

"  Hush !  hush !  "  said  Alice,  as  she  caught  her  in  her 
«rms. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  225 

"  Mr.  Bassett  has  been  here/'  moaned  the  figure,  "  and 
he  says  it  is  Topcliffe  himself  who  has  come  down  on  the 
matter.  .  .  .  He  says  he  is  the  greatest  devil  of  them  all; 
and  Thomas " 

Then  she  burst  out  crying  again. 

It  was  an  hour  before  they  could  get  the  full  tale  out  of 
her.  They  took  her  upstairs  and  made  her  sit  down,  for 
already  a  couple  of  faces  peeped  from  the  buttery,  and  the 
servants  would  have  gathered  in  another  five  minutes; 
and  together  they  forced  her  to  eat  and  drink  something, 
for  she  had  not  tasted  food  since  her  arrival  at  the  inn 
yesterday;  and  so,  little  by  little,  they  drew  the  story  out. 

Mr.  Thomas  and  his  wife  were  actually  on  their  way 
from  Norbury  when  the  arrest  had  been  made.  Mr.  Thomas 
had  intended  to  pass  a  couple  of  nights  in  Derby  on  various 
matters  of  the  estates;  and  although,  his  wife  said,  he  had 
been  somewhat  silent  and  quiet  since  the  warning  had  come 
to  him  from  Mr.  Audrey,  even  he  had  thought  it  no  danger 
to  ride  through  Derby  on  his  way  to  Padley.  He  had  sent 
a  servant  ahead  to  order  rooms  at  the  inn  for  those  two 
nights,  and  it  was  through  that,  it  appeared,  that  the  news 
of  his  coming  had  reached  the  ears  of  the  authorities.  How- 
ever that  was,  and  whether  the  stroke  had  been  actually 
determined  upon  long  before,  or  had  been  suddenly  de- 
cided upon  at  the  news  of  his  coming,  it  fell  out  that,  as 
the  husband  and  wife  were  actually  within  sight  of  Derby, 
on  turning  a  corner  they  had  found  themselves  surrounded 
by  men  on  horses,  plainly  gathered  there  for  the  purpose, 
with  a  magistrate  in  the  midst.  Their  names  had  been 
demanded,  and,  upon  Mr.  Thomas'  hesitation,  they  had 
been  told  that  their  names  were  well  known,  and  a  war- 
rant was  produced,  on  a  charge  of  recusancy  and  of  aiding 
her  Grace's  enemies,  drawn  out  against  Thomas  FitzHer- 


226  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

bert,  and  he  had  been  placed  under  arrest.  Further,  Mrs, 
FitzHerbert  had  been  told  she  must  not  enter  the  town 
with  the  party,  but  must  go  either  before  them  or  after 
them,  which  she  pleased.  She  had  chosen  to  go  first,  and 
had  been  at  the  windows  of  the  inn  in  time  to  see  her  hus- 
band go  by.  There  had  been  no  confusion,  she  said;  the 
townsfolk  appeared  to  know  nothing  of  what  was  happen- 
ing until  Mr.  Thomas  was  safely  lodged  in  the  ward. 

Then  she  burst  out  crying  again,  lamenting  the  horrible 
state  of  the  prison,  as  it  had  been  described  to  her,  and 
demanding  to  know  where  God's  justice  was  in  allowing 
His  faithful  servants  to  be  so  tormented  and  harried.  .  .  . 

Marjorie  watched  her  closely.  She  had  met  her  once  at 
Babington  House,  when  she  was  still  Elizabeth  Westley, 
but  had  thought  little  or  nothing  of  her  since.  She  was  a 
pale  little  creature,  fair-haired  and  timorous1,  and  had  now 
a  hunted  look  of  misery  in  her  eyes  that  was  very  piteous 
to  see.  It  was  plain  they  had  done  right  in  coming:  this 
woman  would  be  of  little  service  to  her  husband. 

Then  when  Alice  had  said  a  word  or  two,  Marjorie  began 
her  questions. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  gently,  "  had  you  no  warning  of 
this?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  beyond  that  which  came  from  yourself,"  she  said ; 
"  and  we  never  thought " 

"  Hath  Mr.  Thomas  had  any  priests  with  him  lately  ?  " 

"  We  have  not  had  one  at  Norbury  for  the  last  six 
months,  whilst  we  were  there,  at  least.  My  husband  said 
it  was  better  not,  and  that  there  was  a  plenty  of  places 
for  them  to  go  to." 

"  And  you  have  not  heard  mass  during  that  time  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  her  with  tear-stained  eyes. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  227 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  But  why  do  you  ask  that?  My  hus- 
band says " 

"And  when  was  the  first  you  heard  of  Topcliffe?  And 
what  have  you  heard  of  him?  " 

The  other's  face  fell  into  lines  of  misery. 

"  I  have  heard  he  is  the  greatest  devil  her  Grace  uses. 
He  hath  authority  to  question  priests  and  others  in  his 
own  house.  He  hath  a  rack  there  that  he  boasts  makes  all 
others  as  Christmas  toys.  My  husband " 

Marjorie  patted  her  arm  gently. 

"  There !  there !  "  she  said  kindly.  "  Your  husband  is 
not  in  Topcliffe's1  house.  There  will  be  no  question  of  that. 
He  is  here  in  his  own  county,  and " 

"  But  that  will  not  save  him ! "  cried  the  girl. 
"  Why " 

"  Tell  me/'  interrupted  Marjorie,  "  was  Topcliffe  with 
the  men  that  took  Mr.  Thomas?  " 

The  other  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  I  heard  he  was  not.  He  was  come  from  London 
yesterday  morning.  That  was  the  first  I  heard  of  him." 

Then  Alice  began  again  to  soothe  her  gently,  to  tell  her 
that  her  husband  was  in  no  great  danger  as  yet,  that  he 
was  well  known  for  his  loyalty,  and  to  do  her  best  to  answer 
the  girl's  pitiful  questions.  And  Marjorie  sat  back  and 
considered. 

Marjorie  had  a  remarkable  knowledge  of  the  methods  of 
the  Government,  gathered  from  the  almost  endless  stories 
she  had  heard  from  travelling  priests  and  others;  it  was 
her  business,  too,  to  know  them.  Two  or  three  things, 
therefore,  if  the  girl's  account  was  correct,  were  plain. 
First,  that  this  was  a  concerted  plan,  and  not  a  mere  chance 
arrest.  Mr.  Audrey's  message  to  her  showed  so  much,  and 
the  circumstances  of  Topcliffe's  arrival  confirmed  it.  Next, 
it  must  be  more  than  a  simple  blow  struck  at  one  man. 


228  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert:  Topcliffe  would  not  have  come 
down  from  London  at  all  unless  it  were  a  larger  quarry 
than  Mr.  Thomas  that  was  aimed  at.  Thirdly,  and  in  con- 
clusion, it  would  not  be  easy  therefore  to  get  Mr.  Thomas 
released  again.  There  remained  a  number  of  questions 
which  she  had  as  yet  no  means  of  answering.  Was  it  be- 
cause Mr.  Thomas  was  heir  to  the  enormous  FitzHerbert 
estates  in  this  county  and  elsewhere,  that  he  was  struck 
at?  Or  was  it  the  beginning,  merely,  of  a  general  assault 
on  Derbyshire,  such  as  had  taken  place  before  she  was 
born?  Or  was  it  that  Mr.  Thomas'  apparent  coolness 
towards  the  Faith  (for  that  was  evident  by  his  not  having 
heard  mass  for  so  long,  and  by  his  refusal  to  entertain 
priests  just  at  present) — was  it  that  lack  of  zeal  on  his 
part,  which  would,  of  course,  be  known  to  the  army  of  in- 
formers scattered  now  throughout  England,  which  had 
marked  him  out  as  the  bird  to  be  flown  at?  It  would  be, 
indeed,  a  blow  to  the  Catholic  gentry  of  the  county,  if  any 
of  the  FitzHerberts  should  fall! 

She  stood  up  presently,  grave  with  her  thoughts.  Mis- 
tress Alice  glanced  up. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  little,"  said  Marjorie. 

"  But " 

"  May  two  of  your  men  follow  me  at  a  little  distance? 
But  I  shall  be  safe  enough.  I  am  going  to  a  friend's 
house." 

Marjorie  knew  Derby  well  enough  from  the  old  days 
when  she  rode  in  sometimes  with  her  father  and  slept  at 
Mr.  BiddelTs;  and,  above  all,  she  knew  all  that  Derby 
had  once  been.  In  one  place,  outside  the  town,  was  St. 
Mary-in-Pratis,  where  the  Benedictine  nuns  had  lived ;  St. 
Leonard's  had  had  a  hospital  for  lepers ;  St.  Helen's  had 
had  the  Augustinian  hospital  for  poor  brothers  and  sisters; 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  229 

St.  Alkmund's  had  held  a  relic  of  its  patron  saint;  all  this 
she  knew  by  heart;  and  it  was  bitter  now  to  be  here  on 
such  business.  But  she  went  briskly  out  from  the  hall, 
and  ten  minutes  later  she  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  a 
little  attorney,  the  old  partner  of  her  father's,  whose  house 
faced  the  Guildhall  across  the  little  market-square.  It  was 
opened  by  an  old  woman  who  smiled  at  the  sight  of  her. 

"  Eh!  come  in,  mistress.  The  master  saw  you  ride  into 
town.  He  is  in  the  upstairs  parlour,  with  Mr.  Bassett." 

The  girl  nodded  to  her  bodyguard,  and  followed  the  old 
woman  in.  She  bowed  as  she  passed  the  lawyer's  confi- 
dential clerk  and  servant,  Mr.  George  Beaton,  in  the  pas- 
sage— a  big  man,  with  whom  she  had  had  communications 
more  than  once  on  Popish  affairs. 

Mr.  John  Biddell,  like  Marjorie's  own  father  and  his 
partner,  was  one  of  those  quiet  folks  who  live  through 
storms  without  attracting  attention  from  the  elements,  yet 
without  the  sacrifice  of  principle.  He  was  a  Catholic,  and 
never  pretended  to  be  anything  else;  but  he  was  so  little 
and  so  harmless  that  no  man  ever  troubled  him.  He  pleaded 
before  the  magistrates  unobtrusively  and  deftly;  and  would 
have  appeared  before  her  Grace  herself  or  the  Lord  of  Hell 
with  the  same  timid  and  respectful  air,  in  his  iron-rimmed 
spectacles,  his  speckless  dark  suit,  and  his  little  black  cap 
drawn  down  to  his  ears.  He  had  communicated  with  Mar- 
jorie  again  and  again  in  the  last  two  or  three  years  on  the 
subject  of  wandering  priests,  calling  them  "  gentlemen," 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  allowing  no  indiscreet  word  ever 
to  appear  in  his  letters.  He  remembered  King  Harry,  whom 
he  had  seen  once  in  a  visit  of  his  to  London;  he  had  as- 
sisted the  legal  authorities  considerably  in  the  restoration 
under  Queen  Mary;  and  he  had  soundlessly  acquiesced  in 
the  changes  again  under  Elizabeth — so  far,  at  least,  as 
mere  law  was  concerned. 


230  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Mr.  William  Bassett  was  a  very  different  man.  First  he 
was  the  brother-in-law  of  Sir  Thomas  FitzHerbert  himself; 
and  was  entirely  of  the  proper  spirit  to  mate  with  that 
fearless  family.  He  had  considerable  estates,  both  at 
Langley  and  Blore,  in  both  of  which  places  he  cheerfully 
evaded  the  new  laws,  maintaining  and  helping  priests  in 
all  directions;  a  man,  in  fact,  of  an  ardent  and  boisterous 
faith  which  he  extended  (so  the  report  ran)  even  to  magic 
and  astrology;  a  man  of  means,  too,  in  spite  of  his  frequent 
fines  for  recusancy,  and  aged  about  fifty  years  old  at  this 
time,  with  a  high  colour  in  his  face  and  bright,  merry 
eyes.  Marjorie  had  spoken  with  him  once  or  twice  only. 

These  two  men,  then,  first  turned  round  in  their  chairs, 
and  then  stood  up  to  salute  Marjorie,  as  she  came  into  the 
upstairs  parlour.  It  was  a  somewhat  dark  room,  panelled 
where  there  was  space  for  it  between  the  books,  and  with 
two  windows  looking  out  on  to  the  square. 

"  I  thought  we  should  see  you  soon,"  said  the  attorney. 
"  We  saw  you  come,  mistress ;  and  the  fellows  that  cried 
out  on  you." 

"  They  had  their  deserts,"  said  Marjorie,  smiling. 

Mr.  Bassett  laughed  aloud. 

"  Indeed  they  did,"  he  said  in  his  deep,  pleasant  voice. 
*'  There  were  two  of  them  with  bloody  noses  before  all 
was  done.  .  .  .  You  have  come  for  the  news,  I  suppose, 
mistress  ?  " 

He  eyed  her  genially  and  approvingly.  He  had  heard  a 
great  deal  of  this  young  lady  in  the  last  three  or  four  years ; 
and  wished  there  were  more  of  her  kind. 

"  That  is  what  I  have  come  for,"  said  Marjorie.  "  We 
have  Mrs.  Thomas  over  at  Babington  House." 

"  She'll  be  of  no  great  service  to  her  husband,"  said  the 
other.  "  She  cries  and  laments  too  much.  Now " 

He  stopped  himself  from  paying  his  compliments.     It 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  231 

seemed  to  him  that  this  woman,  with  her  fearless,  resolute 
face,  would  do  very  well  without  them. 

Then  he  set  himself  to  relate  the  tale. 

It  seemed  that  little  Mrs.  Thomas  had  given  a  true 
enough  report.  It  was  true  that  Topcliffe  had  arrived 
from  London  on  the  morning  of  the  arrest;  and  Mistress 
Manners  was  perfectly  right  in  her  opinion  that  this  signi- 
fied a  good  deal.  But,  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Bassett,  the  Council 
had  made  a  great  mistake  in  striking  at  the  FitzHerberts. 
The  quarry  was  too  strong,  he  said,  for  such  birds  as  the 
Government  used — too  strong  and  too  many.  For,  first,  no 
FitzHerbert  had  ever  yet  yielded  in  his  allegiance  either  to 
the  Church  or  to  the  Queen's  Grace;  and  it  was  not  likely 
that  Mr.  Thomas  would  begin:  and,  next,  if  one  yielded 
(suadente  diabolo,  and  Deus  avertat!)  a  dozen  more  would 
spring  up.  But  the  position  was  serious  for  all  that,  said 
Mr.  Bassett  (and  Mr.  Biddell  nodded  assent),  for  who 
would  deal  with  the  estates  and  make  suitable  arrangements 
if  the  heir,  who  already  largely  controlled  them,  were  laid 
by  the  heels?  But  that  the  largeness  of  the  undertaking 
was  recognised  by  the  Council,  was  plain  enough,  in  that 
no  less  a  man  than  Topcliffe  (Mr.  Bassett  spat  on  the 
floor  as  he  named  him),  Topcliffe,  "the  devil  possessed  by 
worse  devils,"  was  sent  down  to  take  charge  of  the  matter. 

Marjorie  listened  carefully. 

"  You  have  no  fear  for  yourself,  sir?  "  she  asked  pres- 
ently, as  the  man  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

Mr.  Bassett  smiled  broadly,  showing  his  strong  white 
teeth  between  the  iron-grey  hair  that  fringed  his  lips. 

"  No;  I  have  no  fear,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  score  of  my 
men  quartered  in  the  town." 

"  And  the  trial?    When  will  that " 

"  The  trial !  Why,  I  shall  praise  God  if  the  trial  falls 
this  year.  They  will  harry  him  before  magistrates,  ne 


232  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

doubt;  and  they  will  squeeze  him  in  private.  But  the 
trial!  .  .  .  Why,  they  have  not  a  word  of  treason  against 
him;  and  that  is  what  they  are  after,  no  doubt." 

"  Treason?  " 

"  Why,  surely.  That  is  what  they  seek  to  fasten  upon 
us  all.  It  would  not  sound  well  that  Christian  should  shed 
Christian's  blood  for  Christianity ;  but  that  her  Grace  should 
sorrowfully  arraign  her  subjects  whom  she  loves  and 

cossets  so  much,  for  treason Why,  that  is  as  sound  a 

cause  as  any  in  the  law-books !  " 

He  smiled  in  a  manner  that  was  almost  a  snarl,  and  his 
eyes  grew  narrow  with  ironic  merriment. 

"And  Mr.  Thomas "  began  Marjorie  hesitatingly. 

He  whisked  his  glance  on  her  like  lightning. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  will  laugh  at  them  all,"  he  cried.  "  He 
is  as  staunch  as  any  of  his  blood.  I  know  he  has  been 
careful  of  late;  but,  then,  you  must  remember  how  all  the 
estates  hang  on  him.  But  when  he  has  his  back  to  the 
wall — or  on  the  rack  for  that  matter — he  will  be  as  stiff  as 
iron.  They  will  have  their  work  to  bend  him  by  a  hair's 
breadth." 

Marjorie  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  She  did  not  question 
Mr.  Bassett's  judgment.  But  she  had  had  an  uneasy  dis- 
comfort in  her  heart  till  he  had  spoken  so  plainly. 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "  that  is  what  I  chiefly  came  for. 
I  wished  to  know  if  I  could  do  aught  for  Mr.  Thomas  or  hie 
wife;  and " 

"  You  can  do  a  great  deal  for  his  wife,"  said  he.  "  You 
can  keep  her  quiet  and  comfort  her.  She  needs  it,  poor 
soul!  I  have  told  her  for  her  comfort  that  we  shall  have 
Thomas  out  again  in  a  month — God  forgive  me  for  the 
lie!" 

Marjorie  stood  up;  and  the  men  rose  with  her. 

"Why,  what  is  that?"  she  said;  and  went  swiftly  to 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  233 

the  window;  for  the  noise  of  the  crying  of  the  cheeses  and 
the  murmur  of  voices  had  ceased  all  on  a  sudden. 

Straight  opposite  the  window  where  she  stood  was  the 
tiled  flight  of  stairs  that  ran  up  from  the  market-place  to 
the  first  floor  of  the  Guildhall,  a  great  building  where  the 
business  of  the  town  was  largely  done,  and  where  the  mag- 
istrates sat  when  there  was  need;  and  a  lane  that  was  clear 
of  booths  and  carts  had  been  left  leading  from  that  door 
straight  across  the  square,  so  that  she  could  see  the  two 
little  brobonets — or  iron  guns — that  guarded  the  door  on 
either  side.  It  was  up  this  lane  that  she  looked,  and  down 
it  that  there  advanced  a  little  procession,  the  very  sight 
of  which,  it  seemed,  had  stricken  the  square  to  silence. 
Already  the  crowd  was  dividing  from  end  to  end,  ranging 
itself  on  either  side — farmers'  men  shambled  out  of  the 
way  and  turned  to  see;  women  clambered  on  the  carts  hold- 
ing up  their  children  to  see,  and  from  across  the  square 
came  country-folk  running,  that  they  too  might  see.  The 
steps  of  the  Cross  were  already  crowded  with  sight- 
seers. 

Yet,  to  outward  sight,  the  little  procession  was  ordinary 
enough.  First  came  three  or  four  of  the  town-guard  in 
livery,  carrying  their  staves;  then  half  a  dozen  sturdy 
fellows ;  then  a  couple  of  dignified  gentlemen — one  of  them 
she  knew:  Mr.  Roger  Columbell,  magistrate  of  the  town — 
and  then,  walking  all  alone,  the  figure  of  a  man,  tall  and 
thin,  a  little  rustily,  but  very  cleanly  dressed  in  a  dark 
suit,  who  carried  his  head  stooping  forward  as  if  he  were 
looking  on  the  ground  for  something,  or  as  if  he  deprecated 
so  much  notice. 

Marjorie  saw  no  more  than  this  clearly.  She  did  not 
notice  the  group  of  men  that  followed  in  case  protection 
were  needed  for  the  agent  of  the  Council,  nor  the  crowd 
that  swirled  behind.  For,  as  the  solitary  figure  came  be- 


234  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

neath  the  windows  she  recognised  the  man  whom  she  had 
seen  once  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

"  God  smite  the  man ! "  growled  a  voice  in  her  ear. 
"  That  is  Topcliffe,  going  to  the  prison,  I  daresay." 

And  as  Marjorie  turned  her  pale  face  back,  she  saw  the 
face  of  kindly  Mr.  Bassett,  suffused  and  convulsed  with 
fury. 


CHAPTER  IX 


"MARJORIE!  Marjorie!  Wake  up!  the  order  hath  come. 
It  is  for  to-night." 

Very  slowly  Marjorie  rose  out  of  the  glimmering  depths 
of  sleep  into  which  she  had  fallen  on  the  hot  August  after- 
noon, sunk  down  upon  the  arm  of  the  great  chair  that  stood 
by  the  parlour  window,  and  saw  Mrs.  Thomas  radiant  be- 
fore her,  waving  a  scrap  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

Nearly  two  months  were  passed;  and  as  yet  no  oppor- 
tunity had  been  given  to  the  prisoner's  wife  to  visit  him, 
and  during  that  time  it  had  been  impossible  to  go  back 
into  the  hills  and  leave  the  girl  alone.  The  heat  of  the 
summer  had  been  stifling,  down  here  in  the  valley;  a  huge 
plague  of  grasshoppers  had  ravaged  all  England;  and 
there  were  times  when  even  in  the  grass-country  outside 
Derby,  their  chirping  had  become  intolerable.  The  heat, 
and  the  necessary  seclusion,  and  the  anxiety  had  told 
cruelly  upon  the  country  girl;  Marjorie's  face  had  percepti- 
bly thinned;  her  eyes  had  shadows  above  and  beneath; 
vet  she  knew  she  must  not  go;  since  the  young  wife  had 
attached  herself  to  her  altogether,  finding  Alice  (she  said) 
too  dull  for  her  spirits.  Mr.  Bassett  was  gone  again. 
There  was  no  word  of  a  trial;  although  there  had  been  a 
hearing  or  two  before  the  magistrates ;  and  it  was  known 
that  Topcliffe  continually  visited  the  prison. 

One  piece  of  news  only  had  there  been  to  comfort  her 
during  this  time,  and  that,  that  Mr.  John's  prediction  had 
been  fulfilled  with  regard  to  the  captured  priest,  Mr. 
Garlick,  who,  back  from  Rheims  only  a  few  months,  had 

235 


236  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

been  deported  from  England,  since  it  was  his  first  offence. 
But  he  would  soon  be  over  again,  no  doubt,  and  next  time 
with  death  as  the  stake  in  the  game. 

Marjorie  drew  a  long  breath,  and  passed  her  hands  over 
her  forehead. 

"  The  order?  "  she  said.    "  What  order?  " 

The  girl  explained,  torrentially.  A  man  had  come  just 
now  from  the  Guildhall;  he  had  asked  for  Mrs.  FitzHer- 
bert;  she  had  gone  down  into  the  hall  to  see  him;  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  useless  details.  But  the  effect  was  that 
leave  had  been  given  at  last  to  visit  the  prisoner — for  two 
persons,  of  which  Mrs.  FitzHerbert  must  be  one;  and  that 
they  must  present  the  order  to  the  gaoler  before  seven 
o'clock,  when  they  would  be  admitted.  She  looked — such 
was  the  constitution  of  her  mind — as  happy  as  if  it  were  an 
order  for  his  release.  Marjorie  drove  away  the  last  shreds 
of  sleep;  and  kissed  her. 

"  That  is  very  good  news,"  she  said.  "  Now  we  will 
begin  to  do  something." 

The  sun  had  sunk  so  far,  when  they  set  out  at  last,  as  to 
throw  the  whole  of  the  square  into  golden  shade;  and,  in 
the  narrow,  overhung  Friar's  Gate,  where  the  windows  of 
the  upper  stories  were  so  near  that  a  man  might  shake 
hands'  with  his  friend  on  the  other  side,  the  twilight  had 
already  begun.  They  had  determined  to  walk,  in  order  less 
to  attract  attention,  in  spite  of  the  filth  through  which  they 
knew  they  must  pass,  along  the  couple  of  hundred  yards 
that  separated  them  from  the  prison.  For  every  house- 
wife emptied  her  slops  out  of  doors,  and  swept  her  house 
(when  she  did  so  at  all)  into  the  same  place:  now  and  again 
the  heaps  would  be  pushed  together  and  removed,  but  for 
the  most  part  they  lay  there,  bones  and  rags  and  rotten 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  237 

fruit, — dusty  in  one  spot,  so  that  all  blew  about — dampened 
in  others  where  a  pail  or  two  had  been  poured  forth.  The 
heat,  too,  was  stifling,  cast  out  again  towards  evening  from 
the  roofs  and  walls  that  had  drunk  it  in  all  day  from  the 
burning  skies. 

As  they  stood  before  the  door  at  last  and  waited,  after 
beating  the  great  iron  knocker  on  the  iron  plate,  a  kind  of 
despair  came  down  on  Marjorie.  They  had  advanced  just 
so  far  in  two  months  as  to  be  allowed  to  speak  with  the 
prisoner;  and,  from  her  talkings  with  Mr.  Biddell,  had 
understood  how  little  that  was.  Indeed,  he  had  hinted  to 
her  plainly  enough  that  even  in  this  it  might  be  that  they 
were  no  more  than  pawns  in  the  enemy's  hand;  and  that, 
under  a  show  of  mercy,  it  was  often  allowed  for  a  prison- 
er's friends  to  have  free  access  to  him  in  order  to  shake  his 
resolution.  If  there  was  any  cause  for  congratulation  then, 
it  lay  solely  in  the  thought  that  other  means  had  so  far 
failed.  One  thing  at  least  they  knew,  for  their  comfort, 
that  there  had  been  no  talk  of  torture.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  full  couple  of  minutes  before  the  door  opened 
to  show  them  a  thin,  brown-faced  man,  with  his  sleeves 
rolled  up,  dressed  over  his  shirt  and  hose  in  a  kind  of 
leathern  apron.  He  nodded  as  he  saw  the  ladies,  with  an 
air  of  respect,  however,  and  stood  aside  to  let  them  come 
in.  Then,  with  the  same  civility,  he  asked  for  the  order, 
and  read  it,  holding  it  up  to  the  light  that  came  through 
the  little  barred  window  over  the  door. 

It  was  an  unspeakably  dreary  little  entrance  passage 
in  which  they  stood,  wainscoted  solidly  from  floor  to  ceiling 
with  wood  that  looked  damp  and  black  from  age;  the  ceil- 
ing itself  was  indistinguishable  in  the  twilight;  the  floor 
seemed  composed  of  packed  earth,  three  or  four  doors 
showed  in  the  woodwork;  that  opposite  to  the  one  by 
which  they  had  entered  stood  slightly  ajar,  and  a  smoky 


238  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

light  shone  from  beyond  it.  The  air  was  heavy  and  hot 
and  damp,  and  smelled  of  mildew. 

The  man  gave  the  order  back  when  he  had  read  it,  made 
a  little  gesture  that  resembled  a  bow,  and  led  the  way 
straight  forward. 

They  found  themselves,  when  they  had  passed  through 
the  half-open  door,  in  another  passage  running  at  right- 
angles  to  the  entrance,  with  windows,  heavily  barred,  so 
as  to  exclude  all  but  the  faintest  twilight,  even  though 
the  sun  was  not  yet  set;  there  appeared  to  be  foliage  of 
some  kind,  too,  pressing  against  them  from  outside,  as  if 
a  little  central  yard  lay  there ;  and  the  light,  by  which  alone 
they  could  see  their  way  along  the  uneven  earth  floor,  came 
from  a  flambeau  which  hung  by  the  door,  evidently  put 
there  just  now  by  the  man  who  had  opened  to  them;  he 
led  them  down  this  passage  to  the  left,  down  a  couple  of 
steps;  unlocked  another  door  of  enormous  weight  and 
thickness  and  closed  this  behind  them.  They  found  them- 
selves in  complete  darkness. 

"  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment,  mistress,"  said  his  voice ; 
and  they  heard  his  steps  go  on  into  the  dark  and 
cease. 

Marjorie  stood  passive;  she  could  feel  the  girl's  hands 
clasp  her  arm,  and  could  hear  her  breath  come  like  sobs. 
But  before  she  could  speak,  a  light  shone  somewhere  on 
the  roof;  and  almost  immediately  the  man  came  back 
carrying  another  flambeau.  He  called  to  them  civilly ;  they 
followed.  Marjorie  once  trod  on  some  soft,  damp  thing 
that  crackled  beneath  her  foot.  They  groped  round  one 
more  corner;  waited,  while  they  heard  a  key  turning  in  a 
lock.  Then  the  man  stood  aside,  and  they  went  past  into 
the  room.  A  figure  was  standing  there;  but  for  the  first 
moment  they  could  see  no  more.  Great  shadows  fled  this 
Way  and  that  as  the  gaoler  hung  up  the  flambeau.  Then 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  239 

the  door  closed  again  behind  them;  and  Elizabeth  flung 
herself  into  her  husband's  arms. 


II 

When  Marjorie  could  see  him,  as  at  last  he  put  his  wife 
into  the  single  chair  that  stood  in  the  cell  and  gave  her  the 
stool,  himself  sitting  upon  the  table,  she  was  shocked  by 
the  change  in  his  face.  It  was  true  that  she  had  only  the 
wavering  light  of  the  flambeau  to  see  him  by  (for  the  single 
barred  window  was  no  more  than  a  pale  glimmer  on  the 
wall),  yet  even  that  shadowy  illumination  could  not  account 
for  his  paleness  and  his  fallen  face.  He  was  dressed 
miserably,  too;  his  clothes  were  disordered  and  rusty-look- 
ing; and  his  features  looked  out,  at  once  pinched  and 
elongated.  He  blinked  a  little  from  time  to  time;  his  lips 
twitched  beneath  his  ill-cut  moustache  and  beard;  and  little 
spasms  passed,  as  he  talked,  across  his  whole  face.  It  was 
pitiful  to  see  him;  and  yet  more  pitiful  to  hear  him  talk; 
for  he  assumed  a  kind  of  courtesy,  mixed  with  bitterness. 
Now  and  again  he  fell  silent,  glancing  with  a  swift  and 
furtive  movement  of  his  eyes  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
visitors  and  back  again.  He  attempted  to  apologise  for  the 
miserableness  of  the  surroundings  in  which  he  received 
them — saying  that  her  Grace  his  hostess  could  not  be 
everywhere  at  once;  and  that  her  guests  must  do  the  best 
that  they  could.  And  all  this  was  mixed  with  sudden  wails 
from  his  wife,  sudden  graspings  of  his  hands  by  hers.  It 
all  seemed  to  the  quiet  girl,  who  sat  ill-at-ease  on  the  little 
three-legged  stool,  that  this  was  not  the  way  to  meet  ad- 
versity. Then  she  drove  down  her  criticism;  and  told  her- 
self that  she  ought  rather  to  admire  one  of  Christ's  con- 
fessors. 

"  And  you  bring  me  no  hope,  then,  Mistress  Manners?  " 


240  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

he  said  presently  (for  she  had  told  him  that  there  was  no 
talk  yet  of  any  formal  trial) — "  no  hope  that  I  may  meet 
my  accusers  face  to  face?  I  had  thought  perhaps " 

He  lifted  his  eyes  swiftly  to  hers,  and  dropped  them 
again. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  And  yet  that  is  all  that  I  ask  now — only  to  meet  my 
accusers.  They  can  prove  nothing  against  me — except,  in- 
deed, my  recusancy;  and  that  they  have  known  this  long 
time  back.  They  can  prove  nothing  as  to  the  harbouring 
of  any  priests — not  within  the  last  year,  at  any  rate,  for  I 
have  not  done  so.  It  seemed  to  me " 

He  stopped  again,  and  passed  his  shaking  hand  over  his 
mouth,  eyeing  the  two  women  with  momentary  glances,  and 
then  looking  down  once  more. 

"Yes?"  said  Marjorie. 

He  slipped  off  from  the  table,  and  began  to  move  about 
restlessly. 

"  I  have  done  nothing — nothing  at  all,"  he  said.  "  In- 
deed, I  thought "  And  once  more  he  was  silent. 

He  began  to  talk  presently  of  the  Derbyshire  hills — of 
Padley  and  of  Norbury.  He  asked  his  wife  of  news  from 
home,  and  she  gave  it  him,  interrupting  herself  with  la- 
ments. Yet  all  the  while  his  eyes  strayed  to  Marjorie  as 
if  there  was  something  he  would  ask  of  her,  but  could  not. 
He  seemed  completely  unnerved,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  the  girl  began  to  understand  something  of  what 
gaol-life  must  signify.  She  had  heard  of  death  and  the 
painful  Question;  and  she  had  perceived  something  of  the 
heroism  that  was  needed  to  meet  them;  yet  she  had  never 
before  imagined  what  that  life  of  confinement  might  be, 
until  she  had  watched  this  man,  whom  she  had  known  in 
the  world  as  a  curt  and  almost  masterful  gentleman,  care- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  241 

ful  of  his  dress,  particular  of  the  deference  that  was  due 
to  him,  now  become  this  worn  prisoner,  careless  of  his  ap- 
pearance, who  stroked  his  mouth  continually,  once  or  twice 
gnawing  his  nails,  who  paced  about  in  this  abominable  hole, 
where  a  tumbled  heap  of  straw  and  blankets  represented 
a  bed,  and  a  rickety  table  with  a  chair  and  a  stool  his  sole 
furniture.  It  seemed  as  if  a  husk  had  been  stripped  from 
him,  and  a  shrinking  creature  had  come  out  of  it  which  at 
present  she  could  not  recognise. 

Then  he  suddenly  wheeled  on  her,  and  for  the  first  time 
some  kind  of  forcefulness  appeared  in  his  manner. 

"  And  my  Uncle  Bassett?  "  he  cried  abruptly.  "  What 
is  he  doing  all  this  while?  " 

Marjorie  said  that  Mr.  Bassett  had  been  most  active  on 
his  behalf  with  Vhe  lawyers,  but,  for  the  present,  was  gone 
back  again  to  his  estates.  Mr.  Thomas  snorted  impatiently. 

*  Yes,  he  is  gone  back  again,"  he  cried,  "  and  he  leaves 
me  to  rot  here!  He  thinks  that  I  can  bear  it  for  ever,  it 
seems !  " 

"  Mr.  Bassett  has  done  his  utmost,  sir,"  said  Marjorie. 
"  He  exposed  himself  here  daily." 

"  Yes,  with  twenty  fellows  to  guard  him,  I  suppose.  I 
know  my  Uncle  Bassett's  ways.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  if  you  please, 
how  matters  stand." 

Marjorie  explained  again.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world  to  be  done  until  the  order  came  for  his  trial — or, 
rather,  everything  had  been  done  already.  His  lawyers 
were  to  rely  exactly  on  the  defence  that  had  been  spoken 
of  just  now;  it  was  to  be  shown  that  the  prisoner  had  har- 
boured no  priests ;  and  the  witnesses  had  already  been 
spoken  with — men  from  Norbury  and  Padley,  who  would 
swear  that  to  their  certain  knowledge  no  priest  had  been 
received  by  Mr.  FitzHerbert  at  least  during  the  previous 
year  or  eighteen  months.  There  was.  therefore,  no  kind 


242  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

of  reason  why  Mr.  Bassett  or  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert  should 
remain  any  longer  in  Derby.  Mr.  John  had  been  there,  but 
had  gone  again,  under  advice  from  the  lawyers;  but  he  was 
in  constant  communication  with  Mr.  Biddell,  who  had  all 
the  papers  ready  and  the  names  of  the  witnesses,  and  had 
made  more  than  one  application  already  for  the  trial  to 
come  on. 

"  And  why  has  neither  my  father  nor  my  Uncle  Bassett 
come  to  see  me?  "  snapped  the  man. 

"  They  have  tried  again  and  again,  sir,"  said  Marjorie. 
"  But  permission  was  refused.  They  will  no  doubt  try 
again,  now  that  Mrs.  FitzHerbert  has  been  admitted." 

He  paced  up  and  down  again  for  a  few  steps  without 
speaking.  Then  again  he  turned  on  her,  and  she  could  see 
his  face  working  uncontrolledly. 

"And  they  will  enjoy  the  estates,  they  think,  while  I 
rot  here !  " 

"  Oh,  my  Thomas' ! "  moaned  his  wife,  reaching  out  to 
him.  But  he  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

"  While  I  rot  here !  "  he  cried  again.  "  But  I  will  not !  I 
tell  you  I  will  not !  " 

"Yes,  sir?"  said  Marjorie  gently,  suddenly  aware  that 
her  heart  had  begun  to  beat  swiftly. 

He  glanced  at  her,  and  his  face  changed  a  little. 

"  I  will  not,"  he  murmured.  "  I  must  break  out  of  my 
prison.  Only  their  accursed " 

Again  he  interrupted  himself,  biting  sharply  on  his  lip. 

For  an  instant  the  girl  had  thought  that  all  her  old  dis- 
trust of  him  was  justified,  and  that  he  contemplated  in 
some  way  the  making  of  terms  that  would  be  disgraceful 
to  a  Catholic.  But  what  terms  could  these  be?  He  was  a 
FitzHerbert ;  there  was  no  evading  his  own  blood ;  and 
he  was  the  victim  chosen  by  the  Council  to  answer  for  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  243 

rest.  Nothing,  then,  except  the  denial  of  his  faith — a  for- 
mal and  deliberate  apostasy — could  serve  him;  and  to  think 
that  of  the  nephew  of  old  Sir  Thomas,  and  the  son  of 
John,  was  inconceivable.  There  seemed  no  way  out;  the 
torment  of  this  prison  must  be  borne.  She  only  wished 
he  could  have  borne  it  more  manfully. 

It  seemed,  as  she  watched  him,  that  some  other  trAin  of 
thought  had  fastened  upon  him.  His  wife  had  begun  again 
her  lamentations,  bewailing  his  cell  and  his  clothes,  and 
his  loss  of  liberty,  asking  him  whether  he  were  not  ill, 
whether  he  had  food  enough  to  eat;  and  he  hardly  an- 
swered her  or  glanced  at  her,  except  once  when  he  remem- 
bered to  tell  her  that  a  good  gift  to  the  gaoler  would  mean 
a  little  better  food,  and  perhaps  more  light  for  himself. 
And  then  he  resumed  his  pacing;  and,  three  or  four  times 
as  he  turned,  the  girl  caught  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers  for 
one  instant.  She  wondered  what  was  in  his  mind  to 
say. 

Even  as  she  wondered  there  came  a  single  loud  rap  upon 
the  door,  and  then  she  heard  the  key  turning.  He  wheeled 
round,  and  seemed  to  come  to  a  determination. 

"  My  dearest,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  here  is  the  gaoler 

come  to  turn  you  out  again.  I  will  ask  him "  He 

broke  off  as  the  man  stepped  in. 

"  Mr.  Gaoler,"  he  said,  "  my  wife  would  speak  alone 
with  you  a  moment."  (He  nodded  and  winked  at  his  wife, 
as  if  to  tell  her  that  this  was  the  time  to  give  him  the 
money.) 

"  Will  you  leave  Mistress  Manners  here  for  a  minute  or 
two  while  my  wife  speaks  with  you  in  the  passage  ?  " 

Then  Marjorie  understood  that  she  had  been  right. 

The  man  who  held  the  keys  nodded  without  speak- 
ing. 

"  Then,  my  dearest  wife,"  said  Thomas,  embracing  her 


244.  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

all  of  a  sudden,  and  simultaneously  drawing  her  towards 
the  door,  "  we  will  leave  you  to  speak  with  the  man.  He 
will  come  back  for  Mistress  Manners  directly." 

"  Oh !  my  Thomas !  "  wailed  the  girl,  clinging  to  him. 

"  There,  there,  my  dearest.  And  you  will  come  and  see 
me  again  as  soon  as  you  can  get  the  order." 

The  instant  the  door  was  closed  he  came  up  to  Marjorie 
and  his  face  looked  ghastly. 

"  Mistress  Manners,"  he  said,  "  I  dare  not  speak  to  my 
wife.  But  .  .  .  but,  for  Jesu's  sake,  get  me  out  of  here. 
I  ...  I  cannot  bear  it.  ...  Topcliffe  comes  to  see  me 
every  day.  .  .  .  He  ...  he  speaks  to  me  continually 
Of o  Christ !  Christ !  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

He  dropped  suddenly  on  to  his  knees  by  the  table  and 
hid  his  face. 


Ill 

At  Babington  House  Marjorie  slept,  as  was  often  the 
custom,  in  the  same  room  with  her  maid — a  large,  low  room, 
hung  all  round  with  painted  cloths  above  the  low  wains- 
coting. 

On  the  night  after  the  visit  to  the  prison,  Janet  noticed 
that  her  mistress  was  restless;  and  that  while  she  would 
say  nothing  of  what  was  troubling  her,  and  only  bade  her 
go  to  bed  and  to  sleep,  she  herself  would  not  go  to  bed. 
At  last,  in  sheer  weariness,  the  maid  slept. 

She  awakened  later,  at  what  time  she  did  not  know,  and, 
in  her  uneasiness,  sat  up  and  looked  about  her;  and  there, 
still  before  the  crucifix,  where  she  had  seen  her  before  she 
slept,  kneeled  her  mistress.  She  cried  out  in  a  loud 
whisper : 

"  Come  to  bed,  mistress ;  come  to  bed." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  245 

And,  at  the  word,  Marjorie  started;  then  she  rose,  turned, 
and  in  the  twilight  of  the  summer  night  began  to  prepare 
herself  for  bed,  without  speaking.  Far  away  across  the 
roofs  of  Derby  came  the  crowing  of  a  cock  to  greet  the 
dawn. 


CHAPTER  X 


IT  was  a  fortnight  later  that  there  came  suddenly  to  Bab- 
ington  House  old  Mr.  Biddell  himself.  Up  to  the  present 
he  had  been  careful  not  to  do  so.  He  appeared  in  the 
great  hall  an  hour  before  dinner-time,  as  the  tables  were 
being  set,  and  sent  a  servant  for  Mistress  Manners. 

"  Hark  you !  "  he  said ;  "  you  need  not  rouse  the  whole 
house.  It  is  with  Mistress  Manners  alone  that  my  busi- 
ness lies." 

He  broke  off,  as  Mrs.  FitzHerbert  looked  over  the  gal- 
lery. 

"  Mr.  Biddell !  "  she  cried. 

He  shook  his  head,  but  he  seemed  to  speak  with  some 
difficulty. 

"  It  is  just  a  rumour,"  he  said,  "  such  as  there  hath  been 
before.  I  beg  you " 

"  That  .  .  .  there  will  be  no  trial  at  all?  " 

"  It  is  just  a  rumour,"  he  repeated.  "  I  did  not  even 
come  to  trouble  you  with  it.  It  is  with  Mistress  Manners 
that " 

"  I  am  coming  down,"  cried  Mrs.  Thomas,  and  van- 
ished from  the  gallery. 

Mr.  Biddell  acted  with  decision.  He  whisked  out  again 
into  the  passage  from  the  court,  and  there  ran  straight 
into  Marjorie,  who  was  coming  in  from  the  little  enclosed 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"  Quick !  "  he  said.  "  Quick !  Mrs.  Thomas  is  coming, 
and  I  do  not  wish " 

She  led  the  way  without  a  word  back  into  the  court, 
246 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  247 

along  a  few  steps,  and  up  again  to  the  house  into  a  little 
back  parlour  that  the  steward  used  when  the  house  was 
full.  It  was  unoccupied  now,  and  looked  out  into  the 
garden  whence  she  was  just  come.  She  locked  the  door 
when  he  had  entered,  and  came  and  sat  down  out  of  sight 
of  any  that  might  be  passing. 

"Sit  here/'   she  said;  and  then:   "Well?"  she   asked. 

He  looked  at  her  gravely  and  sadly,  shaking  his  head 
once  or  twice.  Then  he  drew  out  a  paper  or  two  from  a 
little  lawyer's  valise  that  he  carried,  and,  as  he  did  so,  heard 
a  hand  try  the  door  outside. 

"  That  is  Mrs.  Thomas,"  whispered  the  girl.  "  She  will 
not  find  us." 

He  waited  till  the  steps  moved  away  again.  Then  he 
began.  He  looked  anxious  and  dejected. 

"  I  fear  it  is  precisely  as  you  thought,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  followed  up  every  rumour  in  the  place.  And  the  first 
thing  that  is  certain  is  that  Topcliffe  leaves  Derby  in  two 
days  from  now.  I  had  it  as  positive  information  that  his 
men  have  orders  to  prepare  for  it.  The  second  thing  is 
that  Topcliffe  is  greatly  elated;  and  the  third  is  that  Mr. 
FitzHerbert  will  be  released  as  soon  as  Topcliffe  is  gone." 

"  You  are  sure  this  time,  sir  ?  " 

He  assented  by  a  movement  of  his  head. 

"  I  dared  not  tell  Mrs.  Thomas  just  now.  She  would 
give  me  no  peace.  I  said  it  was  but  a  rumour,  and  so  it 
is;  but  it  is  a  rumour  that  hath  truth  behind  it.  He  hath 
been  moved,  too,  these  three  days  back,  to  another  cell, 
and  hath  every  comfort." 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"  But  he  hath  made  no  promise "  began  Marjorie 

breathlessly. 

"It  is  exactly  that  which  I  am  most  afraid  of,"  said 
the  lawyer.  "If  he  had  yielded,  and  consented  to  go  to 


248  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

church,  it  would  have  been  in  every  man's  mouth  by  now. 
But  he  hath  not,  and  I  should  fear  it  less  if  he  had. 
That's  the  very  worst  part  of  my  news." 

"  I  do  not  understand " 

Mr.  Biddell  tapped  his  papers  on  the  table. 

"  If  he  were  an  open  and  confessed  enemy,  I  should  fear 
it  less,"  he  repeated.  "  It  is  not  that.  But  he  must  have 
given  some  promise  to  Topcliffe  that  pleases  the  fellow 
more.  And  what  can  that  be  but  that " 

Marjorie  turned  yet  whiter.  She  sighed  once  as  if  to 
steady  herself.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she  nodded. 

"  Yes,  Mistress  Manners,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  make 
no  doubt  at  all  that  he  hath  promised  to  assist  him  against 
them  all — against  Mr.  John  his  father,  it  may  be,  or  Mr. 
Bassett,  or  God  knows  whom !  And  yet  still  feigning  to  be 
true !  And  that  is  not  all." 

She  looked  at  him.  She  could  not  conceive  worse  than 
this,  if  indeed  it  were  true. 

"  And  do  you  think,"  he  continued,  "  that  Mr.  Topcliffe 
will  do  all  this  for  love,  or  rather,  for  mere  malice  ?  I  have 
heard  more  of  the  fellow  since  he  hath  been  in  Derby  than 
in  all  my  life  before;  and,  I  tell  you,  he  is  for  feathering 
his  own  nest  if  he  can."  He  stopped. 

"  Mistress,  did  you  know  that  he  had  been  out  to  Padley 
three  or  four  times  since  he  came  to  Derby?  .  .  .  Well, 
I  tell  you  now  that  he  has.  Mr.  John  was  away,  praise 
God;  but  the  fellow  went  all  round  the  place  and  greatly 
admired  it." 

"  He  went  out  to  see  what  he  could  find  ?  "  asked  the 
girl,  still  whispering. 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  mistress ;  he  searched  nothing.  I  had  it  all  from 
one  of  his  fellows  through  one  of  mine.  He  searched 
nothing;  he  sat  a  great  while  in  the  garden,  and  ate  some 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  249 

of  the  fruit;  he  went  through  the  hall  and  the  rooms,  and 
admired  all  that  was  to  be  seen  there.  He  went  up  into 
the  chapel-room,  too,  though  there  was  nothing  there  to 
tell  him  what  it  was;  and  he  talked  a  great  while  to  one 
of  the  men  about  the  farms1,  and  the  grazing,  and  such- 
like, but  he  meddled  with  nothing."  (The  old  man's  face 
suddenly  wrinkled  into  fury.)  "  The  devil  went  through 
it  all  like  that,  and  admired  it;  and  he  came  out  to  it  again 
two  or  three  times  and  did  the  like." 

He  stopped  to  examine  the  notes  he  had  made,  and 
Marjorie  sat  still,  staring  on  him. 

It  was  worse  than  anything  she  could  have  conceived 
possible.  That  a  FitzHerbert  should  apostatise  was  incred- 
ible enough;  but  that  one  should  sell  his  family It 

was  impossible. 

"  Mr.  Biddell,"  she  whispered  piteously,  "  it  cannot  be. 
It  is  some " 

He  shook  his  head  suddenly  and  fiercely. 

"  Mistress  Manners,  it  is  as  plain  as  daylight  to  me.  Do 
you  think  I  could  believe  it  without  proof?  I  tell  you  I 
have  lain  awake  all  last  night,  fitting  matters  one  into  the 
other.  I  did  not  hear  about  Padley  till  last  night,  and  it 
gave  me  all  that  I  needed.  I  tell  you  Topcliffe  hath  cast 
his  foul  eyes  on  Padley  and  coveted  it;  and  he  hath  de- 
manded it  as  a  price  for  Mr.  Thomas'  liberty.  I  do  not 
know  what  else  he  hath  promised,  but  I  will  stake  my 
fortune  that  Padley  is  part  of  it.  That  is  why  he  is  so 
elated.  He  hath  been  here  nearly  this  three  months  back; 
he  hath  visited  Mr.  FitzHerbert  nigh  every  day;  he  hath 
cajoled  him,  he  hath  threatened  him;  he  hath  worn  out 
his  spirit  by  the  gaol  and  the  stinking  food  and  the  lone- 
liness; and  he  hath  prevailed,  as  he  hath  prevailed  with 
many  another.  And  the  end  of  it  all  is  that  Mr.  FitzHer- 
bert hath  yielded — yet  not  openly.  Maybe  that  is  part  of 


250  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  bargain  upon  the  other  side,  that  he  should  keep  his 
name  before  the  world.  And  on  this  side  he  hath  promised 
Padley,  if  that  he  may  but  keep  the  rest  of  the  estates, 
and  have  his  liberty.  I  tell  you  that  alone  cuts  all  the 
knots  of  this  tangle.  .  .  .  Can  you  cut  their  in  any  other 
manner  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  From  the  direction  of  the 
kitchen  came  the  sound  of  cheerful  voices,  and  the  clatter 
of  lids,  and  from  the  walled  garden  outside  the  chatter  of 
birds.  .  .  . 

At  last  the  girl  spoke. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it  without  evidence,"  she  said.  "  It 
may  be  so.  God  knows !  But  I  do  not.  .  .  .  Mr.  Biddell  ?  " 

"  Well,  mistress  ?  " 

The  lawyer's  head  was  sunk  on  his  breast;  he  spoke 
listlessly. 

"  He  will  have  given  some  writing  to  Mr.  Topcliffe, 
will  he  not?  if  this  be  true.  Mr.  Topcliffe  is  not  the 
man " 

The  old  man  lifted  his  head  sharply;  then  he  nodded. 

"  That  is  the  shrewd  truth,  mistress.  Mr.  Topcliffe 
will  not  trust  to  another's  honour;  he  hath  none  of  his 
own !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Marjorie,  "  if  all  this  be  true,  Mr.  Top*- 
cliffe  will  already  have  that  writing  in  his  possession." 

She  paused. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  lawyer. 

They  looked  at  one  another  again  in  silence.  It  would 
have  seemed  to  another  that  the  two  minds  talked  swiftly 
and  wordlessly  together,  the  trained  thought  of  the  lawyer 
and  the  quick  wit  of  the  woman;  for  when  the  man  spoke 
again,  it  was  as  if  they  had  spoken  at  length. 

"  But  we  must  not  destroy  the  paper,"  he  said,  "  or  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  251 

fat  will  be  in  the  fire.  We  must  not  let  Mr.  FitzHerbert 
know  that  he  is  found  out." 

"  No,"  said  the  girl.  "  But  to  get  a  view  of  it.  ...  And 
a  copy  of  it,  to  send  to  his  family." 

Again  the  two  looked  each  at  the  other  in  silence — as 
if  they  were  equals — the  old  man  and  the  girl. 

II 

It  was  the  last  night  before  the  Londoners  were  to  re- 
turn. 

They  had  lived  royally  these  last  three  months.  The 
agent  of  the  Council  had  had  a  couple  of  the  best  rooms 
in  the  inn  that  looked  on  to  the  market-square,  where  he 
entertained  his  friends,  and  now  and  then  a  magistrate  or 
two.  Even  Mr.  Audrey,  of  Matstead,  had  come  to  him 
once  there,  with  another,  but  had  refused  to  stay  to  supper, 
and  had  ridden  away  again  alone. 

Downstairs,  too,  his  men  had  fared  very  well  indeed. 
They  knew  how  to  make  themselves  respected,  for  they 
carried  arms  always  now,  since  the  unfortunate  affair  a  day 
after  the  arrival,  when  two  of  them  had  been  gravely 
battered  about  by  two  rustic  servants,  who,  they  learned, 
were  members  of  a  Popish  household  in  the  town.  But  all 
the  provincial  fellows  were  not  like  this.  There  was  a  big 
man,  half  clerk  and  half  man-servant  to  a  poor  little  lawyer, 
who  lived  across  the  square — a  man  of  no  wit  indeed,  but, 
at  any  rate,  one  of  means  and  of  generosity,  too,  as  they 
had  lately  found  out — means  and  generosity,  they  under- 
stood, that  were  made  possible  by  the  unknowing  assistance 
of  his  master.  In  a  word  it  was  believed  among  Mr.  Top- 
cliffe's  men  that  all  the  refreshment  which  they  had  lately 
enjoyed,  beyond  that  provided  by  their  master,  was  at 
eld  Mr.  Biddell's  expense,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  and 


252  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

that  George  Beaton,  fool  though  he  was,  was  a  cleverer 
man  than  his  employer.  Lately,  too,  they  had  come  to 
learn,  that  although  George  Beaton  was  half  clerk,  half 
man-servant,  to  a  Papist,  he  was  yet  at  heart  as  stout  a 
Protestant  as  themselves,  though  he  dared  not  declare  it 
for  fear  of  losing  his  place. 

On  this  last  night  they  made  very  merry  indeed,  and 
once  or  twice  the  landlord  pushed  his  head  through  the 
doorway.  The  baggage  was  packed,  and  all  was  in  readi- 
ness for  a  start  soon  after  dawn. 

There  came  a  time  when  George  Beaton  said  that  he 
was  stifling  with  the  heat;  and,  indeed,  in  this  low-ceilinged 
room  after  supper,  with  the  little  windows  looking  on  to 
the  court,  the  heat  was  surprising.  The  men  sat  in  their 
shirts  and  trunks.  So  that  it  was  as  natural  as  possible 
that  George  should  rise  from  his  place  and  sit  down  again 
close  to  the  door  where  the  cool  air  from  the  passage  came 
in;  and  from  there,  once  more,  he  led  the  talk,  in  his  char- 
acter of  rustic  and  open-handed  boor;  he  even  beat  the 
sullen  man  who  was  next  him  genially  over  the  head  to 
make  him  give  more  room,  and  then  he  proposed  a  toast 
to  Mr.  Topcliffe. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  later,  when  George  was  be- 
coming a  little  anxious,  that  he  drew  out  at  last  a  statement 
that  Mr.  Topcliffe  had  a  great  valise  upstairs,  full  of  papers 
that  had  to  do  with  his  law  business.  (He  had  tried  for 
this  piece  of  information  last  night  and  the  night  before, 
but  had  failed  to  obtain  it.)  Ten  minutes  later  again, 
then,  when  the  talk  had  moved  to  affairs  of  the  journey, 
and  the  valise  had  been  forgotten,  it  was  an  entirely  un- 
suspicious circumstance  that  George  and  the  man  that  sat 
next  him  should  slip  out  to  take  the  air  in  the  stable-court. 
The  Londoner  was  so  fuddled  with  drink  as  to  think  that 
he  had  gone  out  at  his  own  deliberate  wish;  and  there,  in 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  253 

the  fresh  air,  the  inevitable  result  followed;  his  head  swam, 
and  he  leaned  on  big  George  for  support.  And  here,  by 
the  one  stroke  of  luck  that  visited  poor  George  this  even- 
ing, it  fell  that  he  was  just  in  time  to  see  Mr.  Topcliffe 
himself  pass  the  archway  in  the  direction  of  Friar's  Gate, 
in  company  with  a  magistrate,  who  had  supped  with  him 
upstairs. 

Up  to  this  point  George  had  moved  blindly,  step  by  step. 
He  had  had  his  instructions  from  his  master,  yet  all  that 
he  had  been  able  to  determine  was  the  general  plan  to  find 
out  where  the  papers  were  kept,  to  remain  in  the  inn  till 
the  last  possible  moment,  and  to  watch  for  any  chance  that 
might  open  to  him.  Truly,  he  had  no  more  than  that, 
except,  indeed,  a  vague  idea  that  it  might  be  necessary  to 
bribe  one  of  the  men  to  rob  his  master.  Yet  there  was 
everything  against  this,  and  it  was,  indeed,  a  last  resort. 
It  seemed  now,  however,  that  another  way  was  open.  It 
was  exceedingly  probable  that  Mr.  Topcliffe  was  off  for 
his  last  visit  to  the  prisoner,  and,  since  a  magistrate  was 
with  him,  it  was  exceedingly  improbable  that  he  would  take 
the  paper  with  him.  It  was  not  the  kind  of  paper — if,  in- 
deed, it  existed  at  all — that  more  persons  would  be  allowed 
to  see  than  were  parties  to  the  very  discreditable  affair. 

And  now  George  spoke  earnestly  and  convincingly.  He 
desired  to  see  the  baggage  of  so  great  a  man  as  Mr.  Top- 
cliffe; he  had  heard  so  much  of  him.  His  friend  was  a 
good  fellow  who  trusted  him  (here  George  embraced  him 
warmly).  Surely  such  a  little  thing  would  be  allowed  as 
for  him,  George,  to  step  in  and  view  Mr.  Topcliffe's  bag- 
gage, while  the  faithful  servant  kept  watch  in  the  passage! 
Perhaps  another  glass  of  ale 


254  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Ill 

"  Yes,  sir/'  said  George  an  hour  later,  still  a  little  flushed 
with  the  amount  of  drink  he  had  been  forced  to  consume. 
"  I  had  some  trouble  to  get  it.  But  I  think  this  is  what 
your  honour  wanted." 

He  began  to  search  in  his  deep  breast-pocket. 

"  TeU  me,"  said  Mr.  Biddell. 

"  I  got  the  fellow  to  watch  in  the  passage,  sir;  him  that 
I  had  made  drunk,  while  I  was  inside.  There  were  great 
bundles  of  papers  in  the  valise.  .  .  .  No,  sir,  it  was 
strapped  up  only.  .  .  .  The  most  of  the  papers  were 
docketed  very  legally,  sir;  so  I  did  not  have  to  search  long. 
There  were  three  or  four  papers  in  a  little  packet  by  them- 
selves; besides  a  great  packet  that  was  endorsed  with  Mr. 
FitzHerbert's  name,  as  well  as  Mr.  Topcliffe's  and  my 
lord  Shrewsbury's;  and  I  think  I  should  not  have  had  time 
to  look  that  through.  But,  by  God's  mercy,  it  was  one  of 
the  three  or  four  by  themselves." 

He  had  the  paper  in  his  hand  by  now.  The  lawyer 
made  a  movement  to  take  it.  Then  he  restrained  himself. 

"  Tell  me,  first,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  George,  with  a  pardonable  satisfaction 
in  spinning  the  matter  out,  "  one  was  all  covered  with 
notes,  and  was  headed  '  Padley.'  I  read  that  through,  sir. 
It  had  to  do  with  the  buildings  and  the  acres,  and  so 
forth.  The  second  paper  I  could  make  nothing  out  of; 
it  was  in  cypher,  I  think.  The  third  paper  was  the  same; 
and  the  fourth,  sir,  was  that  which  I  have  here." 

The  lawyer  started. 

"  But  I  told  you " 

"Yes,  sir;  I  should  have  said  that  this  is  the  copy — or, 
at  least,  an  abstract.  I  made  the  abstract  by  the  window, 
sir,  crouching  down  so  that  none  should  see  me.  Then  I 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  255 

put  all  back  as  before,  and  came  out  again;  the  fellow  was 
fast  asleep  against  the  door." 

"  And  Topcliffe " 

"  Mr.  Topcliffe,  sir,  returned  half  an  hour  afterwards  in 
company  again  with  Mr.  Hamilton.  I  waited  a  few 
minutes  to  see  that  all  was  well,  and  then  I  came  to  you, 
sir." 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  room  for  a  moment.  It 
was  the  small  back  office  of  Mr.  Biddell,  where  he  did  his 
more  intimate  business,  looking  out  on  to  a  paved  court. 
The  town  was  for  the  most  part  asleep,  and  hardly  a  sound 
came  through  the  closed  windows. 

Then  the  lawyer  turned  and  put  out  his  hand  for  the 
paper  without  a  word.  He  nodded  to  George,  who  went 
out,  bidding  him  good-night. 

Ten  minutes  later  Mr.  Biddell  walked  quietly  through 
the  passengers'  gate  by  the  side  of  the  great  doors  that  led 
to  the  court  beside  Babington  House,  closing  it  behind 
him.  He  knew  that  it  would  be  left  unbarred  till  eleven 
o'clock  that  night.  He  passed  on  through  the  court,  past 
the  house  door,  to  the  steward's  office,  where  through  heavy 
curtains  a  light  glimmered.  As  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
door  it  opened,  and  Marjorie  was  there.  He  said  nothing, 
nor  did  she.  Her  face  was  pale  and  steady,  and  there 
was  a  question  in  her  eyes.  For  answer  he  put  the  paper 
into  her  hands,  and  sat  down  while  she  read  it.  The  still- 
ness was  as  deep  here  as  in  the  office  he  had  just  left. 

IV 

It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  either  spoke.  The  girl 
read  the  paper  twice  through,  holding  it  close  to  the  little 
hand-lamp  that  stood  on  the  table. 


256  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  You  see,  mistress/'  he  said,  "it  is  as  bad  as  it 
can  be." 

She  handed  back  the  paper  to  him;  he  slid  out  his  spec- 
tacles, put  them  on,  and  held  the  writing  to  the  light. 

"  Here  are  the  points,  you  see  .  .  ."  he  went  on.  "  I 
have  annotated  them  in  the  margin.  First,  that  Thomas 
FitzHerbert  be  released  from  Derby  gaol  within  three  days 
from  the  leaving  of  Topcliffe  for  London,  and  that  he  be 
no  more  troubled,  neither  in  fines  nor  imprisonment;  next, 
that  he  have  secured  to  him,  so  far  as  the  laws  shall  permit, 
all  his  inheritance  from  Sir  Thomas,  from  his  father,  and 
from  any  other  bequests  whether  of  his  blood-relations?  or 
no ;  thirdly,  that  Topcliffe  do  '  persecute  to  the  death  '  " — 
(the  lawyer  paused,  cast  a  glance  at  the  downcast  face  of 
the  girl)  "  ' — do  persecute  to  the  death '  his  uncle  Sir 
Thomas,  his  father  John,  and  William  Bassett  his  kinsman; 
and,  in  return  for  all  this,  Thomas  FitzHerbert  shall  become 
her  Grace's  sworn  servant — that  is,  Mistress  Manners,  her 
Grace's  spy,  pursuivant,  informer  and  what-not — and  that 
he  shall  grant  and  secure  to  Richard  Topcliffe,  Esquire,  and 
to  his  heirs  for  ever,  '  the  manors  of  Over  Padley  and 
Nether  Padley,  on  the  Derwent,  with  six  messuages,  two 
cottages,  ten  gardens,  ten  orchards,  a  thousand  acres  of  land, 
five  hundred  acres  of  meadow-land,  six  hundred  acres  of 
pasture,  three  hundred  acres  of  wood,  a  thousand  acres  of 
furze  and  heath,  in  Padley,  Grindleford  and  Lyham,  in 
the  parish  of  Hathersage,  in  consideration  of  eight  hundred 
marks  of  silver,  to  be  paid  to  Thomas  FitzHerbert,  Esquire, 
etc.'  " 

The  lawyer  put  the  paper  down,  and  pushed  his  spec- 
tacles on  to  his  forehead. 

"  That  is  a  legal  instrument  ?  "  asked  the  girl  quietly, 
still  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  It  is  not  yet  fully  completed,  but  it  is  signed  and 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  257 

nessed.  It  can  become  a  legal  instrument  by  Topcliffe's 
act;  and  it  would  pass  muster " 

"  It  is  signed  by  Mr.  Thomas  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

She  was  silent  again.  He  began  to  tell  her  of  how  he 
had  obtained  it,  and  of  George's  subtlety  and  good  fortune; 
but  she  seemed  to  pay  no  attention.  She  sat  perfectly 
still.  When  he  had  ended,  she  spoke  again. 

"  A  sworn  servant  of  her  Grace "  she  began. 

"  Topcliffe  is  a  sworn  servant  of  her  Grace/'  he  said 
bitterly;  "you  may  judge  by  that  what  Thomas  FitzHer- 
bert  hath  become." 

"We  shall  have  his  hand,  too,  against  us  all,  then?" 

"  Yes,  mistress ;  and,  what  is  worse,  this  paper  I  take 
it — "  (he  tapped  it)  "  this  paper  is  to  be  a  secret  for  the 
present.  Mr.  Thomas  will  still  feign  himself  to  be  a 
Catholic,  with  Catholics,  until  he  comes  into  all  his  inheri- 
tances. And,  meantime,  he  will  supply  information  to  his 
new  masters." 

"  Why  cannot  we  expose  him  ?  " 

"  Where  is  the  proof  ?     He  will  deny  it." 

She  paused. 

"  We  can  at  least  tell  his  family.  You  will  draw  up  the 
informations  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  so." 

"  And  send  them  to  Sir  Thomas  and  Mr.  Bassett?  " 

"  I  will  do  so." 

"  That  may  perhaps  prevent  his  inheritance  coming  to 
him  as  quickly  as  he  thinks." 

The  lawyer's  eyes  gleamed. 

"  And  what  of  Mrs.  Thomas,  mistress?  " 

Marjorie  lifted  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  think  a  great  deal  of  Mrs.  Thomas,"  she  said. 
r*  She  is  honest,  I  think ;  but  she  could  not  be  trusted  with 


258  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

a  secret.  But  I  will  tell  Mistress  Babington,  and  I  will 
warn  what  priests  I  can." 

"  And  if  it  leaks  out?  " 

"  It  must  leak  out." 

"And  yourself?  Can  you  meet  Mr.  Thomas  again  just 
now?  He  will  be  out  in  three  days." 

Marjorie  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  cannot  meet  him.  I  should  betray  what  1 
felt.  I  shall  make  excuses  to  Mrs.  Thomas,  and  go  home 
to-morrow." 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  "  Red  Bull  "  in  Cheapside  was  all  alight ;  a  party  had 
arrived  there  from  the  coast  not  an  hour  ago,  and  the  rooms 
that  had  been  bespoken  by  courier  occupied  the  greater 
part  of  the  second  floor;  the  rest  of  the  house  was  already 
filled  by  another  large  company,  spoken  for  by  Mr.  Bab- 
ington,  although  he  himself  was  not  one  of  them.  And  it 
seemed  to  the  shrewd  landlord  that  these  two  parties  were 
not  wholly  unknown  to  one  another,  although,  as  a  discreet 
man,  he  said  nothing. 

The  latest  arrived  party  was  plainly  come  from  the  coast. 
They  had  arrived  a  little  after  sunset  on  this  stormy  Au- 
gust day,  splashed  to  the  shoulders  by  the  summer-mud,  and 
drenched  to  the  skin  by  the  heavy  thunder-showers.  Their 
baggage  had  a  battered  and  sea-going  air  about  it,  and  the 
landlord  thought  he  would  not  be  far  away  if  he  conjec- 
tured Rheims  as  their  starting-point;  there  were  three 
gentlemen  in  the  party,  and  four  servants  apparently;  but 
he  knew  better  than  to  ask  questions  or  to  overhear  what 
seemed  rather  over-familiar  conversation  between  the  men 
and  their  masters.  There  was  only  one,  however,  whom 
he  remembered  to  have  lodged  before,  over  five  years  ago. 
The  name  of  this  one  was  Mr.  Alban.  But  all  this  was 
not  his  business.  His  duty  was  to  be  hearty  and  deferen- 
tial and  entirely  stupid;  and  certainly  this  course  of  be- 
haviour brought  him  a  quantity  of  guests. 

Mr.  Alban,  about  half-past  nine  o'clock,  had  finished 
unstrapping  his  luggage.  It  was  of  the  most  innocent  de- 

261 


262  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

scription,  and  contained  nothing  that  all  the  world  might 
not  see.  He  had  made  arrangements  that  articles  of  an- 
other kind  should  come  over  from  Rheims  under  the  care 
of  one  of  the  "  servants,"  whose  baggage  would  be  less 
suspected.  The  distribution  would  take  place  in  a  day  or 
two.  These  articles  comprised  five  sets  of  altar  vessels, 
five  sets  of  mass-vestments,  made  of  a  stuff  woven  of  all 
the  liturgical  colours  together,  a  dozen  books,  a  box  of 
medals,  another  of  Agnus  Deis — little  wax  medallions 
stamped  with  the  figure  of  a  Lamb  supporting  a  banner — 
a  bunch  of  beads,  and  a  heavy  little  square  package  of 
very  thin  altar-stones. 

As  he  laid  out  the  suit  of  clothes  that  he  proposed  to 
wear  next  day,  there  was  a  rapping  on  his  door. 

"  Mr.  Babington  is  come — sir."  (The  last  word  was 
added  as  an  obvious  afterthought,  in  case  of  listeners.) 

Robin  sprang  up ;  the  door  was  opened  by  his  "  servant," 
and  Anthony  came  in,  smiling. 

Mr.  Anthony  Babington  had  broadened  and  aged  con- 
siderably during  the  last  five  years.  He  was  still  youth- 
ful-looking, but  he  was  plainly  a  man  and  no  longer  a  boy. 
And  he  presently  said  as  much  for  his  friend. 

"  You  are  a  man,  Robin,"  he  said. — "  Why,  it  slipped 
my  mind !  " 

He  knelt  down  promptly  on  the  strip  of  carpet  and  kissed 
the  palms  of  the  hands  held  out  to  him,  as  is  the  custom  to 
do  with  newly-ordained  priests,  and  Robin  murmured  a 
blessing. 

Then  the  two  sat  down  again. 

"  And  now  for  the  news,"  said  Robin. 

Anthony's  face  grew  grave. 

"  Yours  first,"  he  said. 

So   Robin   told  him.      He   had  been   ordained   priest  a 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  263 

month  ago,  at  Chalons-sur-Marne.  .  .  .  The  college  was 
as  full  as  it  could  hold.  .  .  .  They  had  had  an  unadven- 
turous  journey. 

Anthony  put  a  question  or  two,  and  was1  answered. 

"  And  now,"  said  Robin,  "  what  of  Derbyshire ;  and  of 
the  country;  and  of  iny  father?  And  is  it  true  that  Bal- 
lard  is  taken?  " 

Anthony  threw  an  arm  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  and 
tried  to  seem  at  his  ease. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  Derbyshire  is  as  it  ever  was.  You 
heard  of  Thomas  FitzHerbert's  defection?" 

"  Mistress  Manners  wrote  to  me  of  it,  more  than  two 
years  ago." 

"  Well,  he  does  what  he  can :  he  comes  and  goes  with  his 
wife  or  without  her.  But  he  comes  no  more  to  Padley. 
And  he  scarcely  makes  a  feint  even  before  strangers  of 
being  a  Catholic,  though  he  has  not  declared  himself,  nor 
gone  to  church,  at  any  rate  in  his  own  county.  Here  in 
London  I  have  seen  him  more  than  once  in  Topcliffe's  com- 
pany. But  I  think  that  every  Catholic  in  the  country 
knows  of  it  by  now.  That  is  Mistress  Manners'  doing. 
My  sister  says  there  has  never  been  a  woman  like  her." 

Robin's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  I  always  said  so,"  he  said.  "  But  none  would  believe 
me.  She  has  the  wit  and  courage  of  twenty  men.  What 
has  she  been  doing?" 

"  What  has  she  not  done  ?  "  cried  Anthony.  "  She  keeps 
herself  for  the  most  part  in  her  house;  and  my  sister 
spends  a  great  deal  of  time  with  her;  but  her  men,  who 
would  die  for  her,  I  think,  go  everywhere;  and  half  the 
hog-herds  and  shepherds  of  the  Peak  are  her  sworn  men. 
I  have  given  your  Dick  to  her;  he  was  mad  to  do  what 
he  could  in  that  cause.  So  her  men  go  this  way  and  that 
bearing  her  letters  or  her  messages  to  priests  who  are  on 


264  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

their  way  through  the  county;  and  she  gets  news — God 
knows  how! — of  what  is  a-stirring  against  us.  She  has 
saved  Mr.  Ludlam  twice,  and  Mr.  Garlick  once,  as  well 
as  Mr.  Simpson  once,  by  getting  the  news  to  them  of 
the  pursuivants'  coming,  and  having  them  away  into  the 
Peak.  And  yet  with  all  this,  she  has  never  been  laid  by 
the  heels." 

"  Have  they  been  after  her,  then  ?  "  asked  Robin  eagerly. 

"  They  have  had  a  spy  in  her  house  twice  to  my  knowl- 
edge, but  never  openly;  and  never  a  shred  of  a  priest's 
gown  to  be  seen,  though  mass  had  been  said  there  that 
day.  But  they  have  never  searched  it  by  force.  And  I 
think  they  do  not  truly  suspect  her  at  all." 

"  Did  I  not  say  so?  "  cried  Robin.  "  And  what  of  my 
father?  He  wrote  to  me  that  he  was  to  be  made  magis- 
trate; and  I  have  never  written  to  him  since." 

"  He  hath  been  made  magistrate,"  said  Anthony  drily ; 
"  and  he  sits  on  the  bench  with  the  rest  of  them." 

"  Then  he  is  all  of  the-  same  mind  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  his  mind.  I  have  never  spoken  with 
him  this  six  years  back.  I  know  his  acts  only.  His  name 
was  in  the  '  Bond  of  Association,'  too !  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  that." 

"  Why,  it  is  two  years  old  now.  Half  the  gentry  of 
England  have  joined  it,"  said  Anthony  bitterly.  "  It  is  to 
persecute  to  the  death  any  pretender  to  the  Crown  other 
than  our  Eliza." 

There  was  a  pause.  Robin  understood  the  bitter- 
ness. 

"  And  what  of  Mr.  Ballard  ?  "  asked  Robin. 

"  Yes ;  he  is  taken,"  said  Anthony  slowly,  watching  him. 
*'  He  was  taken  a  week  ago." 

"Will  they  banish  him,  then?" 

"  I  think  they  will  banish  him." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  265 

"  Why,  yes — it  is  the  first  time  he  hath  been  taken.  And 
there  is  nothing  great  against  him?  " 

"  I  think  there  is  not,"  said  Anthony,  still  with  that 
strange  deliberateness. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  " 

Anthony  stood  up  without  answering.  Then  he  began 
to  pace  about.  As  he  passed  the  door  he  looked  to  the 
bolt  carefully.  Then  he  turned  again  to  his  friend. 

"  Robin,"  he  said,  "  would  you  sooner  know  a  truth  that 
will  make  you  unhappy,  or  be  ignorant  of  it?  " 

"  Does  it  concern  myself  or  my  business  ?  "  asked  Robin 
promptly. 

"  It  concerns  you  and  every  priest  and  every  Catholic  in 
England.  It  is  what  I  have  hinted  to  you  before." 

"  Then  I  will  hear  it." 

"  It  is  as  if  I  told  it  in  confession  ?  " 

Robin  paused. 

"  You  may  make  it  so,"  he  said,  "  if  you  choose." 

Anthony  looked  at  him  an  instant.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I 
will  not  make  a  confession,  because  there  is  no  use  in  that 
now — but Well,  listen !  "  he  said,  and  sat  down. 

II 

When  he  ceased,  Robin  lifted  his  head.  He  was  as  white 
as  a  sheet. 

"  You  have  been  refused  absolution  before  for  this  ?  " 

"  I  was  refused  absolution  by  two  priests ;  but  I  was 
granted  it  by  a  third." 

"  Let  me  see  that  I  have  the  tale  right. 

"  Yourself,  with  a  number  of  others,  have  bound  your- 
selves by  an  oath  to  kill  her  Grace,  and  to  set  Mary  on  the 
throne.  This  has  taken  shape  now  since  the  beginning  of 
the  summer.  You  yourself  are  now  living  in  Mr.  Walsing- 


266  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

ham's  house,  in  Seething  Lane,  under  the  patronage  of  hef 
Grace,  and  you  show  yourself  freely  at  court.  You  have 
proceeded  so  far,  under  fear  of  Mr.  Ballard's  arrest,  as  to 
provide  one  of  your  company  with  clothes  and  necessaries 
that  can  enable  him  to  go  to  court;  and  it  was  your  inten- 
tion, as  well  as  his,  that  he  should  take  opportunity  to  kill 
her  Grace.  But  to-day  only  you  have  become  persuaded 
that  the  old  design  was  the  better;  and  you  wish  first  to 
arrange  matters  with  the  Queen  of  the  Scots,  so  that  when 
all  is  ready,  you  may  be  the  more  sure  of  a  rising  when 
that  her  Grace  is  killed,  and  that  the  Duke  of  Parma  may 
be  in  readiness  to  bring  an  army  into  England.  It  is  still 
your  intention  to  kill  her  Grace  ?  " 

"  By  God !  it  is !  "  said  Anthony,  between  clenched  teeth. 

"  Then  I  could  not  absolve  you,  even  if  you  came  to  con- 
fession. You  may  be  absolved  from  your  allegiance,  as  we 
all  are;  but  you  are  not  absolved  from  charity  and  justice 
towards  Elizabeth  as  a  woman.  I  have  consulted  theolo- 
gians on  the  very  point;  and " 

Then  Anthony  sprang  up. 

"  See  here,  Robin ;  we  must  talk  this  out."  He  flicked  his 
fingers  sharply.  "  See — we  will  talk  of  it  as  two  friends." 

"  You  had  better  take  back  Ihose  words,"  said  the  priest 
gravely. 

"Why?" 

"  It  would  be  my  duty  to  lay  an  information !  I  under- 
stood you  spoke  to  me  as  to  a  priest,  though  not  in  con- 
fession." 

"  You  would !  "  blazed  the  other. 

"  I  should  do  so  in  conscience,"  said  the  priest.  "  But 
you  have  not  yet  told  me  as  a  friend,  and " 

"  You  mean " 

"  I  mean  that  so  long  as  you  choose  to  speak  to  me  of 
it,  now  and  here,  it  remains  that  I  choose  to  regard  it  as 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  267 

sub  sigillo  in  effect.  But  you  must  not  come  to  me  to-mor- 
row, as  if  I  knew  it  all  in  a  plain  way.  I  do  not.  I  know 
it  as  a  priest  only." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  Anthony  stood 
up. 

"  I  understand/'  he  said.  "  But  you  would  refuse  me 
absolution  in  any  case  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  give  you  absolution  so  long  as  you  intended 
to  kill  her  Grace." 

Anthony  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  See  here,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  tell  you  the  whole  matter 
from  the  beginning.  Now  listen." 

He  settled  himself  again  in  his  chair,  and  began. 

"  Robin,"  he  said,  "  you  remember  when  I  spoke  to  you 
in  the  inn  on  the  way  to  Matstead;  it  must  be  seven  or 
eight  years  gone  now?  Well,  that  was  when  the  beginning 
was.  There  was  no  design  then,  such  as  we  have  to-day; 
but  the  general  purpose  was  there.  I  had  spoken  with 
man  after  man;  I  had  been  to  France,  and  seen  Mr.  Mor- 
gan there,  Queen  Mary's  man,  and  my  lord  of  Glasgow; 
and  all  that  I  spoke  with  seemed  of  one  mind — except  my 
lord  of  Glasgow,  who  did  not  say  much  to  me  on  the  matter. 
But  all  at  least  were  agreed  that  there  would  be  no  peace 
in  England  so  long  as  Elizabeth  sat  on  the  throne. 

"  Well:  it  was  after  that  that  I  fell  in  with  Ballard,  who 
was  over  here  on  some  other  affair;  and  I  found  him  a  man 
of  the  same  mind  as  myself;  he  was  all  agog  for  Mary, 
and  seemed  afraid  of  nothing.  Well;  nothing  was  done 
for  a  great  while.  He  wrote  to  me  from  France;  I  wrote 
back  to  him  again,  telling  him  the  names  of  some  of  my 
friends.  I  went  to  see  him  in  France  two  or  three  times; 
and  I  saw  him  here,  when  you  yourself  came  over  with  him. 
But  we  did  not  know  whom  to  trust.  Neither  had  we  any 


268  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

special  design.  Her  Grace  of  the  Scots  went  hither  and 
thither  under  strong  guards;  and  what  I  had  done  for  her 
before " 

Robin  looked  up.    He  was  still  quite  pale  and  quite  quiet. 

"What  was  that?"  he  said. 

Anthony  again  made  his  impatient  gesture.  He  was 
fiercely  excited;  but  kept  himself  under  tolerable  control. 

"  Why,  I  have  been  her  agent  for  a  great  while  back, 
getting  her  letters  through  to  her,  and  such  like.  But  last 
year,  when  that  damned  Sir  Amyas  Paulet  became  her 
gaoler,  I  could  do  nothing.  Two  or  three  times  my  mes- 
senger was  stopped,  and  the  letters  taken  from  him.  Well ; 
after  that  time  I  could  do  no  more.  There  her  Grace  was, 
back  again  at  Tutbury,  and  none  could  get  near  her.  She 
might  no  more  give  alms,  even,  to  the  poor;  and  all  her 
letters  must  go  through  Walsingham's  hands.  And  then 
God  helped  us:  she  was  taken  last  autumn  to  Chartley, 
near  by  which  is  the  house  of  the  Giffords;  and  since  that 
time  we  have  been  almost  merry.  Do  you  know  Gilbert 
Gifford?" 

"  He  hath  been  with  the  Jesuits,  hath  he  n'ot?  " 

"  That  is  the  man.  Well,  Mr.  Gilbert  Gifford  hath  been 
God's  angel  to  us.  A  quiet,  still  kind  of  a  man — you  have 
seen  him?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  with  him  at  Rheims,"  said  Robin.  "  I 
know  nothing  of  him." 

"  Well ;  he  contrived  the  plan.  He  hath  devised  a  beer- 
barrel  that  hath  the  beer  all  roundabout,  so  that  when  they 
push  their  rods  in,  there  seems  all  beer  within.  But  in 
the  heart  of  the  beer  there  is  secured  a  little  iron  case ;  and 
within  the  iron  case  there  is  space  for  papers.  Well,  this 
barrel  goes  to  and  fro  to  Chartley  and  to  a  brewer  that  is 
a  good  Catholic;  and  within  the  case  there  are  the  letters. 
And  in  this  way,  all  has  been  prepared " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  269 

Robin  looked  up  again.  He  remained  quiet  through  all 
the  story;  and  lifted  no  more  than  his  eyes.  His  fingers 
played  continually  with  a  button  on  his  doublet. 

"  You  mean  that  Queen  Mary  hath  consented  to  this  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes !  " 

"  To  her  sister's  death  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes !  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  it/'  said  the  priest  quietly.  "  On 
whose  word  does  that  stand  ?  " 

"  Why,  on  her  own !     Whose  else's  ?  "  snapped  Anthony. 

"  You  mean,  you  have  it  in  her  own  hand,  signed  by  her 
name  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  Gifford's  hand !  Is  not  that  enough  ?  And  there 
is  her  seal  to  it.  It  is  in  cypher,  of  course.  What  would 
you  have  ?  " 

"  Where  is  she  now?  "  asked  Robin,  paying  no  attention 
to  the  question. 

"  She  hath  just  now  been  moved  again  to  Tixall." 

"  For  what?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  What  has  that  to  do  with  the  matter? 
She  will  be  back  soon  again.  I  tell  you  all  is  arranged." 

"  Tell  me  the  rest  of  the  story,"  said  the  priest. 

"  There  is  not  much  more.  So  it  stands  at  present.  I 
tell  you  her  Grace  hath  been  tossed  to  and  fro  like  a  ball 
at  play.  She  was  at  Chatsworth,  as  you  know;  she  has 
been  shut  up  in  Chartley  like  a  criminal;  she  was  at  Bab- 
ington  House  even.  God !  if  I  had  but  known  it  in  time !  " 

"  In  Babington  House !    Why,  when  was  that  ?  " 

"  Last  year,  early — with  Sir  Ralph  Sadler,  who  was  her 
gaoler  then !  "  cried  Anthony  bitterly ;  "  but  for  a  night 
only.  ...  I  have  sold  the  house." 

"  Sold  it !  " 

"  I  do  not  keep  prisons,"  snapped  Anthony.  "  I  will  have 
none  of  it !  " 


270  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"Well?" 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  other  man  quietly.  "  I  must  say 
that  when  Ballard  was  taken " 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  Last  week  only.  Well,  when  he  was  taken  I  thought 
perhaps  all  was  known.  But  I  find  Mr.  Walsingham's  con- 
versation very  comforting,  though  little  he  knows  it,  poor 
man !  He  knows  that  I  am  a  Catholic ;  and  he  was  lament- 
ing to  me  only  three  days  ago  of  the  zeal  of  these  informers. 
He  said  he  could  not  save  Ballard,  so  hot  was  the  pursuit 
after  him;  that  he  would  lose  favour  with  her  Grace  if  he 
did." 

"What  comfort  is  there  in  that?" 

"  Why ;  it  shows  plain  enough  that  nothing  is  known  of 
the  true  facts.  If  they  were  after  him  for  this  design  of 
ours  do  you  think  that  Walsingham  would  speak  like  that? 
He  would  clap  us  all  in  ward — long  ago." 

The  young  priest  was  silent.  His  head  still  whirled  with 
the  tale,  and  his  heart  was  sick  at  the  misery  of  it  all. 
This  was  scarcely  the  home-coming  he  had  looked  for! 
He  turned  abruptly  to  the  other. 

"  Anthony,  lad,"  he  said,  "  I  beseech  you  to  give  it  up." 

Anthony  smiled  at  him  frankly.  His  excitement  was  sunk 
down  again. 

"  You  were  always  a  little  soft,"  he  said.  "  I  remember 
you  would  have  nought  to  do  with  us  before.  Why,  we  are 
at  war,  I  tell  you ;  and  it  is  not  we  who  declared  it !  They 
have  made  war  on  us  now  for  the  last  twenty  years  and 
more.  What  of  all  the  Catholics — priests  and  others — 
who  have  died  on  the  gibbet,  or  rotted  in  prison?  If  her 
Grace  makes  war  upon  us,  why  should  we  not  make  war 
upon  her  Grace?  Tell  me  that,  then!  " 

"  Anthony,  I  beseech  you  to  give  it  up.  I  hate  the  whole 
matter,  and  fear  it,  too." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  271 

"Fear  it?  Why,  I  tell  you,  we  hold  them  so."  (He 
stretched  out  his  lean,  young  hand,  and  clenched  the  long 
fingers  slowly  together.)  "  We  have  them  by  the  throat. 
You  will  be  glad  enough  to  profit  by  it,  when  Mary  reigns. 
What  is  there  to  fear?  " 

"  I  do  not  know;  I  am  uneasy.  But  that  is  not  to  the 
purpose.  I  tell  you  it  is  forbidden  by  God's " 

"  Uneasy !  Fear  it !  Why,  tell  me  what  there  is  to  fear  ? 
What  hole  can  you  find  anywhere  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  hardly  know  the  tale  yet.  But  it 
seems  to  me  there  might  be  a  hundred." 

"  Tell  me  one  of  them,  then." 

Anthony  threw  himself  back  with  an  indulgent  smile  on 
his  face. 

"  Why,  if  you  will  have  it,"  said  Robin,  roused  by  the 
contempt,  "  there  is  one  great  hole  in  this.  All  hangs  upon 
Gifford's  word,  as  it  seems  to  me.  You  have  not  spoken 
with  Mary;  you  have  not  even  her  own  hand  on  it." 

"  Bah !  Why,  her  Grace  of  the  Scots  cannot  write  in 
cypher,  do  you  think?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  how  that  may  be.  It  may  be  so.  But  I 
say  that  all  hangs  upon  Gifford." 

"  Arid  you  think  Gifford  can  be  a  liar  and  a  knave !  " 
sneered  Anthony. 

"  I  have  not  one  word  against  him,"  said  the  priest. 
"  But  neither  had  I  against  Thomas  FitzHerbert;  and  you 
know  what  has  befallen " 

Anthony  snorted  with  disdain. 

"  Put  your  finger  through  another  hole,"  he  said. 

"  Well — I  like  not  the  comfort  that  Mr.  Secretary  Wal- 
singham  has  given  you.  You  told  me  a  while  ago  that  Bal- 
lard  was  on  the  eve  of  going  to  France.  Now  Walsingham 
is  no  fool.  I  would  to  God  he  were !  He  has  laid  enough 
of  our  men  by  the  heels  already." 


272  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"By  God!"  cried  Anthony,  roused  again.  "I  would 
not  willingly  call  you  a  fool  either,  my  man!  But  do  you 
not  understand  that  Walsingham  believes  me  as  loyal  as 
himself?  Here  have  I  been  at  court  for  the  last  year, 
bowing  before  her  Grace,  and  never  a  word  said  to  me  on 
my  religion.  And  here  is  Walsingham  has  bidden  me  to 
lodge  in  his  house,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  spider's  webs. 
Do  you  think  he  would  do  that  if " 

"  I  think  he  might  have  done  so,"  said  Robin  slowly. 

Anthony  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  My  Robin,"  he  said,  "  you  were  right  enough  when  you 
said  you  would  not  join  with  us.  You  were  not  made  for 
this  work.  You  would  see  an  enemy  in  your  own 
father " 

He  stopped  confounded. 

Robin  smiled  drearily. 

"  I  have  seen  one  in  him,"  he  said. 

Anthony  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  not  unkindly. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  Robin.  I  did  not  think  what  I  said. 
Well;  we  will  leave  it  at  that.  And  you  would  not  give  me 
absolution  ?  " 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  give  me  your  blessing,"  said  Anthony,  dropping 
on  his  knees.  "  And  so  we  will  close  up  the  quasi-sigillum 
confessionis." 

Ill 

It  was  a  heavy-hearted  priest  that  presently,  downstairs, 
stood  with  Anthony  in  one  of  the  guest-rooms,  and  was  made 
known  to  half  a  dozen  strangers.  Every  word  that  he  had 
heard  upstairs  must  be  as  if  it  had  never  been  spoken, 
from  the  instant  at  which  Anthony  had  first  sat  down  to 
the  instant  in  which  he  had  kneeled  down  to  receive  his 
blessing.  So  much  he  knew  from  his  studies  at  Rheims. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  273 

He  must  be  to  each  man  that  he  met,  that  which  he  would 
have  been  to  him  an  hour  ago.  Yet,  though  as  a  man  he 
must  know  nothing,  his  priest's  heart  was  heavy  in  his 
breast.  It  was  a  strange  home-coming — to  pass  from  the 
ordered  piety  of  the  college:  to  the  whirl  of  politics  and 
plots  in  which  good  and  evil  span  round  together — honest 
and  fiery  zeal  for  God's  cause,  mingled  with  what  he  was 
persuaded  was  crime  and  abomination.  He  had  thought 
that  a  priest's  life  would  be  a  simple  thing,  but  it  seemed 
otherwise  now. 

He  spoke  with  those  half-dozen  men — those  who  knew 
him  well  enough  for  a  priest;  and  presently,  when  some  of 
his  own  party  came,  drew  aside  again  with  Anthony,  who 
began  to  tell  him  in  a  low  voice  of  the  personages  there. 

"  These  are  all  my  private  friends,"  he  said,  "  and  some 
of  them  be  men  of  substance  in  their  own  place.  There  is 
Mr.  Charnoc,  of  Lancashire,  he  with  the  gilt  sword.  He 
is  of  the  Court  of  her  Grace,  and  comes  and  goes  as  he 
pleases.  He  is  lodged  in  Whitehall,  and  comes  here  but  to 
see  his  friends.  And  there  is  Mr.  Savage,  in  the  new 
clothes,  with  his  beard  cut  short.  He  is  a  very  honest  fel- 
low, but  of  a  small  substance,  though  of  good  family 
enough." 

"  Her  Grace  has  some  of  her  ladies,  too,  that  are  Catho- 
lics, has  she  not?"  asked  Robin. 

"  There  are  two  or  three  at  least,  and  no  trouble  made. 
They  hear  mass  when  they  can  at  the  Embassies.  Men- 
doza  is  a  very  good  friend  of  ours." 

Mr.  Charnoc  came  up  presently  to  the  two.  He  was  a 
cheerful-looking  man,  of  northern  descent,  very  particular 
in  his  clothes,  with  large  gold  ear-rings;  he  wore  a  short, 
pointed  beard  above  his  stiff  ruff,  and  his  eyes  were  bright 
and  fanatical. 

"  You  are  from  Rheims,  I  understand,  Mr.  Alban." 


274  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

He  sat  down  with  something  of  an  air  next  to  Robin. 

"  And  your  county ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  from  Derbyshire,  sir,"  said  Robin. 

"  From  Derbyshire.  Then  you  will  have  heard  of  Mis- 
tress Marjorie  Manners,  no  doubt." 

"  She  is  an  old  friend  of  mine/'  said  Robin,  smiling.  (The 
man  had  a  great  personal  charm  about  him.) 

"  You  are  very  happy  in  your  friends,  then,"  said  the 
other.  "  I  have  never  spoken  with  her  myself;  but  I  hear 
of  her  continually  as  assisting  our  people — sending  them 
now  up  into  the  Peak  country,  now  into  the  towns,  as  the 
case  may  be — and  never  a  mistake." 

It  was  delightful  to  Robin  to  hear  her  praised,  and  he 
talked  of  her  keenly  and  volubly.  Exactly  that  had  hap- 
pened which  five  years  ago  he  would  have  thought  im- 
possible ;  for  every  trace  of  his  old  feeling  towards  her  was 
gone,  leaving  behind,  and  that  only  in  the  very  deepest 
intimacies  of  his  thought,  a  sweet  and  pleasant  romance, 
like  the  glow  in  the  sky  when  the  sun  is  gone  down.  Little 
by  little  that  had  come  about  which,  in  Marjorie,  had 
transformed  her  when  she  first  sent  him  to  Rheims.  It  was 
not  that  reaction  had  followed;  there  was  no  contempt, 
either  of  her  or  of  himself,  for  what  he  had  once  thought 
of  her;  but  another  great  passion  had  risen  above  it — a 
passion  of  which  the  human  lover  cannot  even  guess, 
kindled  for  one  that  is  greater  than  man;  a  passion  fed, 
trained  and  pruned  by  those  six  years  of  studious  peace  at 
Rheims,  directed  by  experts  in  humanity.  There  he  had 
seen  what  Love  could  do  when  it  could  rise  higher  than 
its  human  channels;  he  had  seen  young  men,  scarcely  older 
than  himself,  set  out  for  England,  as  for  their  bridals, 
exultant  arid  on  fire;  and  back  to  Rheims  had  come  again 
the  news  of  their  martyrdom:  this  one  died,  crying  to  Jesu 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  275 

as  a  home-coming  child  cries  to  his  mother  at  the  garden- 
gate;  this  one  had  said  nothing  upon  the  scaffold,  but  his 
face  (they  said  who  brought  the  news)  had  been  as  the 
face  of  Stephen  at  his  stoning;  and  others  had  come  back 
themselves,  banished,  with  pain  of  death  on  their  returning, 
yet  back  once  more  these  had  gone.  And,  last,  more  than 
once,  there  had  crept  back  to  Rheims,  borne  on  a  litter 
all  the  way  from  the  coast,  the  phantom  of  a  man  who 
a  year  or  two  ago  had  played  "  cat "  and  shouted  at  the 
play — now  a  bent  man,  grey-haired,  with  great  scars  on 
wrists  and  ankles.  .  .  .  Te  Deums  had  been  sung  in  the 
college  chapel  when  the  news  of  the  deaths  had  come: 
there  were  no  requiems  for  such  as  these;  and  the  place  of 
the  martyr  in  the  refectory  was  decked  with  flowers.  .  .  . 
Robin  had  seen  these  things,  and  wondered  whether  his 
place,  too,  would  some  day  be  so  decked. 

For  Marjorie,  then,  he  felt  nothing  but  a  happy  friend- 
liness, and  a  real  delight  when  he  thought  of  seeing  her 
again.  It  was  glorious1,  he  thought,  that  she  had  done  so 
much;  that  her  name  was  in  all  men's  mouths.  And  he 
had  thought,  when  he  had  first  gone  to  Rheims,  that  he 
would  do  all  and  she  nothing !  He  had  written  to  her  then, 
freely  and  happily.  He  had  told  her  that  she  must  give 
him  shelter  some  day,  as  she  was  doing  for  so  many. 

Meanwhile  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  her  praises. 

"  '  Eve  would  be  Eve,'  "  quoted  Mr.  Charnoc  presently, 
in  speaking  of  pious  women's  obstinacy,  "  '  though  Adam 
would  say  Nay.'  " 

Then,  at  last,  when  Mr.  Charnoc  said  that  he  must  be 
leaving  for  his  own  lodgings,  and  stood  up ;  once  more  upon 
Robin's  heart  there  fell  the  horrible  memory  of  all  that 
he  had  heard  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  II 


IT  was  strange  to  Robin  to  walk  about  the  City,  and  to 
view  all  that  he  saw  from  his  new  interior  position.  The 
last  time  that  he  had  been  in  his  own  country  on  that 
short  visit  with  "  Captain  Fortescue,"  he  had  been  innocent 
in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  or,  at  least,  no  more  guilty  than  any 
one  of  the  hundreds  of  young  men  who,  in  spite  of  the  reg- 
ulations, were  sent  abroad  to  finish  their  education  amid 
Catholic  surroundings.  Now,  however,  his  very  presence 
was  an  offence:  he  had  broken  every  law  framed  expressly 
against  such  cases  as  his ;  he  had  studied  abroad,  he  had 
been  "  ordained  beyond  the  seas  " ;  he  had  read  his  mass 
in  his  own  bedchamber;  he  had,  practically,  received  a 
confession;  and  it  was  his  fixed  and  firm  intention  to 
"  reconcile  "  as  many  of  "  her  Grace's  subjects  "  as  possible 
to  the  "  Roman  See."  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  found 
pleasure  in  the  sheer  adventure  of  it,  as  would  every  young 
man  of  spirit;  and  he  wore  his  fine  clothes,  clinked  his 
sword,  and  cocked  his  secular  hat  with  delight. 

The  burden  of  what  he  had  heard  still  was  heavy  on  him. 
It  was  true  that  in  a  manner  inconceivable  to  any  but  a 
priest  it  lay  apart  altogether  from  his  common  conscious- 
ness: he  had  talked  freely  enough  to  Mr.  Charnoc  and  the 
rest;  he  could  not,  even  by  a  momentary  lapse,  allow  what 
he  knew  to  colour  even  the  thoughts  by  which  he  dealt 
with  men  in  ordinary  life;  for  though  it  was  true  that  no 
confession  had  been  made,  yet  it  was  in  virtue  of  his  priest- 
hood that  he  had  been  told  so  much.  Yet  there  were  mo- 
ments when  he  walked  alone,  with  nothing  else  to  dis- 

376 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  277 

tract  him,  when  the  cloud  came  down  again;  and  there  were 
moments,  too,  in  spite  of  himself,  when  his  heart  beat  with 
another  emotion,  when  he  pictured  what  might  not  be  five 
years  hence,  if  Elizabeth  were  taken  out  of  the  way  and 
Mary  reigned  in  her  stead.  He  knew  from  his  father  how 
swiftly  and  enthusiastically  the  old  Faith  had  come  back 
with  Mary  Tudor  after  the  winter  of  Edward's  reign, 
And  if,  as  some  estimated,  a  third  of  England  were  still 
convincedly  Catholic,  and  perhaps  not  more  than  one  twen- 
tieth convincedly  Protestant,  might  not  Mary  Stuart,  with 
her  charm,  accomplish  more  even  than  Mary  Tudor  with 
her  lack  of  it? 

He  saw  many  fine  sights  during  the  three  or  four  days 
after  his  coming  to  London;  for  he  had  to  wait  there  at 
least  that  time,  until  a  party  that  was  expected  from  the 
north  should  arrive  with  news  of  where  he  was  to  go. 
These  were  the  instructions  he  had  had  from  Rheims.  So 
he  walked  freely  abroad  during  these  days  to  see  the  sights ; 
and  even  ventured  to  pay  a  visit  to  Fathers  Garnett  and 
Southwell,  two  Jesuits  that  arrived  a  month  ago,  and  were 
for  the  present  lodging  in  my  Lord  Vaux's  house  in  Hack- 
ney. 

He  was  astonished  at  Father  Southwell's  youthfulness. 

This  priest  had  landed  but  a  short  while  before,  and, 
for  the  present,  was  remaining  quietly  in  the  edge  of  Lon- 
don with  the  older  man;  for  himself  was  scarcely  twenty- 
five  years  old,  and  looked  twenty  at  the  most.  He  was 
very  quiet  and  sedate,  with  a  face  of  almost  feminine  deli- 
cacy, and  passed  a  good  deal  of  his  leisure,  as  the  old 
lord  told  Robin,  in  writing  verses.  He  appeared  a  strangely 
fine  instrument  for  such  heavy  work  as  was  a  priest's1. 

On  another  day  Robin  saw  the  Archbishop  land  at  West- 
minster Stairs. 


278  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

It  was  a  brilliant  day  of  sunshine  as  he  came  up  the 
river-bank,  and  a  little  crowd  of  folks  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  drew  his  attention.  Then  he  heard,  out  of  sight, 
the  throb  of  oars  grow  louder;  then  a  cry  of  command; 
and,  as  he  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  looked  over, 
the  Archbishop,  with  a  cloak  thrown  over  his  rochet,  was 
just  stepping  out  of  the  huge  gilded  barge,  whose  blue-and- 
silver  liveried  oarsmen  steadied  the  vessel,  or  stood  at  the 
salute.  It  was  a  gay  and  dignified  spectacle  as  he  per- 
ceived, in  spite  of  his  intense  antipathy  to  the  sight  of  a 
man  who,  to  him,  was  no  better  than  an  usurper  and  a  de- 
ceiver of  the  people.  Dr.  Whitgift,  too,  was  no  friend  to 
Catholics:  he  had,  for  instance,  deliberately  defended  the 
use  of  the  rack  against  them  and  others,  unashamed;  and 
in  one  particular  instance,  at  least,  as  Bishop  of  Worcester, 
had  directed  its  exercise  in  the  county  of  Denbigh.  These 
things  were  perfectly  known,  of  course,  even  beyond  the 
seas,  to  the  priests  who  were  to  go  on  the  English  mission, 
in  surprising  detail.  Robin  knew  even  that  this  man  was 
wholly  ignorant  of  Greek;  he  looked  at  him  carefully  as 
he  came  up  the  stairs,  and  was  surprised  at  the  kindly 
face  of  him,  thin-lipped,  however,  though  with  pleasant, 
searching  eyes.  His  coach  was  waiting  outside  Old  Palace 
Yard,  and  Robin,  following  with  the  rest  of  the  little  crowd, 
saluted  him  respectfully  as  he  climbed  into  it,  followed  by 
a  couple  of  chaplains. 

As  he  walked  on,  he  glanced  back  across  the  river  at 
Lambeth.  There  it  lay,  then,  the  home  of  Warham  and 
Pole  and  Morton,  with  the  water  lapping  its  towers.  It  had 
once  stood  for  the  spiritual  State  of  God  in  England,  facing 
its  partner — (and  sometimes  its  rival) — -Westminster  and 
Whitehall;  now  it  was  a  department  of  the  civil  State 
merely.  It  was  occupied  by  men  such  as  Dr.  Grindal, 
sequestrated  and  deprived  of  even  his  spiritual  functions 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  279 

by  the  woman  who  now  grasped  all  the  reins  of  the  Com- 
monwealth; and  now  again  by  the  man  whom  he  had  just 
seen,  placed  there  by  the  same  woman  to  carry  out  her 
will  more  obediently  against  all  who  denied  her  supremacy 
in  matters  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal,  whether  Papists 
or  Independents. 

The  priest  was  astonished,  as  he  reached  the  precincts 
of  Whitehall,  to  observe  the  number  of  guards  that  were 
everywhere  visible.  He  had  been  warned  at  Rheims  not 
to  bring  himself  into  too  much  notice,  no  more  than  mark- 
edly to  avoid  it;  so  he  did  not  attempt  to  penetrate  even 
the  outer  courts  or  passages.  Yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
an  air  of  watchfulness  was  everywhere.  At  the  gate  to- 
wards which  he  looked  at  least  half  a  dozen  men  were  on 
formal  guard,  their  uniforms  and  weapons  sparkling  bril- 
liantly in  the  sunshine;  and  besides  these,  within  the  open 
doors  he  caught  sight  of  a  couple  of  officers.  As  he  stood 
there,  a  man  came  out  of  one  of  the  houses  near  the  gate, 
and  turned  towards  it:  he  was  immediately  challenged,  and 
presently  pass'ed  on  within,  where  one  of  the  officers  came 
forward  to  speak  to  him.  Then  Robin  thought  he  had  stood 
looking  long  enough,  and  moved  away. 

He  came  back  to  the  City  across  the  fields,  half  a  mile 
away  from  the  river,  and,  indeed,  it  was  a  glorious  sight 
he  had  before  him.  Here,  about  him,  was  open  ground  on 
either  side  of  the  road  on  which  he  walked;  and  there,  in 
front,  rose  up  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  the  long  line  of  great 
old  houses,  beyond  the  stream  that  ran  down  into  the 
Thames — old  Religious'  Houses  for  the  most  part,  now  dis- 
guised and  pulled  about  beyond  recognition,  ranging  right 
and  left  from  the  Ludgate  itself:  behind  these  rose  again 
towers  and  roofs,  and  high  above  all  the  tall  spire  of  the 


280  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Cathedral,  as  if  to  gather  all  into  one  culminant  aspira- 
tion. .  .  .  The  light  from  the  west  lay  on  every  surface 
that  looked  to  his  left,  golden  and  rosy;  elsewhere  lay  blue 
and  dusky  shadows. 


II 

"  There  is  a  letter  for  you,  sir,"  said  the  landlord,  who 
had  an  uneasy  look  on  his  face,  as  the  priest  came  through 
the  entrance  of  the  inn. 

Robin  took  it.  Its  superscription  ran  shortly:  "  To  Mr. 
Alban,  at  the  Red  Bull  Inn  in  Cheapside.  Haste.  Haste. 
Haste." 

He  turned  it  over;  it  was  sealed  plainly  on  the  back 
without  arms  or  any  device;  it  was  a  thick  package,  and 
appeared  as  if  it  might  hold  an  enclosure  or  two. 

Robin  had  learned  caution  in  a  good  school,  and  what  is 
yet  more  vital  in  true  caution,  an  appearance  of  careless- 
ness. He  weighed  the  packet  easily  in  his  hand,  as  if  it 
were  of  no  value,  though  he  knew  it  might  contain  very 
questionable  stuff  from  one  of  his  friends,  and  glanced  at 
a  quantity  of  baggage  that  lay  heaped  beside  the  wall. 

"  What  is  all  this?  "  he  said.    "  Another  party  arrived?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  the  party  is  leaving.  Rather,  it  is  left  already ; 
and  the  gentlemen  bade  me  have  the  baggage  ready  here. 
They  would  send  for  it  later,  they  told  me." 

This  was  unusually  voluble  from  this  man.  Robin  looked 
at  him  quickly,  and  away  again. 

"  What  party  ?  "  he  said. 

"  The  gentlemen  you  were  with  this  two  nights  past,  sir," 
said  the  landlord  keenly. 

Robin  was  aware  of  a  feeling  as  if  a  finger  had  been  laid 
on  his  heart;  but  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved. 

"  Indeed !  "  he  said.     "  They  told  me  nothing  of  it." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  281 

Then  he  moved  on  easily,  feeling  the  landlord's  eyes  in 
every  inch  of  his  back,  and  went  leisurely  upstairs. 

He  reached  his  room,  bolted  the  door  softly  behind  him, 
and  sat  down.  His  heart  was  going  now  like  a  hammer. 
Then  he  opened  the  packet;  an  enclosure  fell  out  of  it,  also 
sealed,  but  without  direction  of  any  kind.  Then  he  saw 
that  the  sheet  in  which  the  packet  had  come  was  itself 
covered  with  writing,  rather  large  and  sprawling,  as  if 
written  in  haste.  He  put  the  packet  aside,  and  then  lifted 
the  paper  to  read  it. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  sat  quite  still.  The  room 
looked  to  him  misty  and  unreal;  the  paper  crackled  in  his 
shaking  fingers,  and  a  drop  of  sweat  ran  suddenly  into  the 
corner  of  his  dry  lips.  Then  he  read  the  paper  again.  It 
ran  as  follows: 

"  It  is  all  found  out,  we  think.  I  find  myself  watched 
at  every  point,  and  I  can  get  no  speech  with  B.  I  cannot 
go  forth  from  the  house  without  a  fellow  to  follow  me, 
and  two  of  my  friends  have  found  the  same.  Mr.  G.,  too, 
hath  been  with  Mr.  W.  this  three  hours  back.  By  chance 
I  saw  him  come  in,  and  he  has  not  yet  left  again.  Mr. 
Ch.  is  watching  for  me  while  I  write  this,  and  will  see  that 
this  letter  is  bestowed  on  a  trusty  man  who  will  bring  it  to 
your  inn,  and,  with  it,  another  letter  to  bid  our  party  save 
themselves  while  they  can.  I  do  not  know  how  we  shall 
fare,  but  we  shall  meet  at  a  point  that  is  fixed,  and  after 
that  evade  or  die  together.  You  were  right,  you  see.  Mr. 
G.  has  acted  the  traitor  throughout,  with  Mr.  W.'s  con- 
nivance and  assistance.  I  beg  of  you,  then,  to  carry  this 
letter,  which  I  send  in  this,  to  Her  for  whom  we  have 
forfeited  our  lives,  or,  at  least,  our  country ;  or,  if  you  can- 
not take  it  with  safety,  master  the  contents  of  it  by  note 
and  deliver  it  to  her  with  your  own  mouth.  She  has  been 


282  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

taken  back  to  C.  again,  whither  you  must  go,  and  all  her 
effects  searched." 

There  was  no  signature,  but  there  followed  a  dash  of  the 
pen,  and  then  a  scrawled  "  A.  B.,"  as  if  an  interruption 
had  come,  or  as  if  the  man  who  was  with  the  writer  would 
wait  no  longer. 

A  third  time  Robin  read  it  through.  It  was  terribly  easy 
of  interpretation.  "  B."  was  Ballard ;  "  G."  was  Gifford ; 
"  W."  was  Walsingham;  "  Ch."  was  Charnoc;  "  Her  "  was 
Mary  Stuart;  "  C."  was  Chartley.  It  fitted  and  made  sense 
like  a  child's  puzzle.  And,  if  the  faintest  doubt  could 
remain  in  the  most  incredulous  mind  as  to  the  horrible 
reality  of  it  all,  there  was  the  piled  luggage  downstairs, 
that  would  never  be  "  sent  for  "  (and  never,  indeed,  needed 
again  by  its  owners  in  this  world). 

Then  he  took  up  the  second  sealed  packet,  and  held  it 
unbroken,  while  his  mind  flew  like  a  bird,  and  in  less  than 
a  minute  he  decided,  and  opened  it. 

It  was  a  piteous  letter,  signed  again  merely  "  A.  B.," 
and  might  have  been  written  by  any  broken-hearted  rever- 
ent lover  to  his  beloved.  It  spoke  an  eternal  good-bye; 
the  writer  said  that  he  would  lay  down  his  life  gladly  again 
in  such  a  cause  if  it  were  called  for,  and  would  lay  down 
a  thousand  if  he  had  them;  he  entreated  her  to  look  to  her- 
self, for  that  no  doubt  every  attempt  would  now  be  made 
to  entrap  her;  and  it  warned  her  to  put  no  longer  any 
confidence  in  a  "  detestable  knave,  G.  G."  Finally,  he 
begged  that  "  Jesu  would  have  her  in  His  holy  keeping," 
and  that  if  matters  fell  out  as  he  thought  they  would,  she 
would  pray  for  his  soul,  and  the  souls  of  all  that  had  been 
with  him  in  the  enterprise. 

He  read  it  through  three  or  four  times;  every  line  and 
letter  burned  itself  into  his  brain.  Then  he  tore  it 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  283 

across  and  across;  then  he  tore  the  letter  addressed  to  him- 
self in  the  same  manner;  then  he  went  through  all  the 
fragments,  piece  by  piece,  tearing  each  into  smaller  frag- 
ments, till  there  remained  in  his  hands  just  a  bunch  of  tiny 
scraps,  smaller  than  snowflakes,  and  these  he  scattered  out 
of  the  window. 

Then  he  went  to  his  door,  unbolted  it,  and  walked  down- 
stairs to  find  the  landlord. 


Ill 

It  was  not  until  ten  days  later,  soon  after  dawn,  that 
Robin  set  out  on  his  melancholy  errand.  He  rode  out 
northward  as  soon  as  the  gates  were  opened,  with  young 
"  Mr.  Arnold,"  a  priest  ordained  with  him  in  Rheims,  and 
one  of  his  party,  disguised  as  a  servant,  following  him  on 
a  pack-horse  with  the  luggage.  It  was  a  misty  morning, 
white  and  cheerless,  with  the  early  fog  that  had  drifted  up 
from  the  river.  Last  night  the  news  had  come  in  that 
Anthony  and  at  least  one  other  had  been  taken  near  Har- 
row, in  disguise,  and  the  streets  had  been  full  of  riotous 
rejoicing  over  the  capture. 

He  had  thought  it  more  prudent  to  wait  till  after  receiv- 
ing the  news,  which  he  so  much  dreaded,  lest  haste  should 
bring  suspicion  on  himself,  and  the  message  that  he  carried ; 
since  for  him,  too,  to  disappear  at  once  would  have  meant 
an  almost  inevitable  association  of  him  with  the  party  of 
plotters;  but  it  had  been  a  hard  time  to  pass  through. 
Early  in  the  morning,  after  Anthony's  flight,  he  had 
awakened  to  hear  a  rapping  upon  the  inn  door,  and,  peep- 
ing from  his  window,  had  seen  a  couple  of  plainly  dressed 
men  waiting  for  admittance;  but  after  that  he  had  seen  no 
more  of  them.  He  had  deliberately  refrained  from  speak- 
ing with  the  landlord,  except  to  remark  again  upon  the 


284  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

luggage  of  which  he  caught  a  sight,  piled  no  longer  in  the 
entrance,  but  in  the  little  room  that  the  man  himself  used. 
The  landlord  had  said  shortly  that  it  had  not  yet  been  sent 
for.  And  the  greater  part  of  the  day — after  he  had  told 
the  companions  that  had  come  with  him  from  Rheims  that 
he  had  had  a  letter,  which  seemed  to  show  that  the  party 
with  whom  they  had  made  friends  had  disappeared,  and 
were  probably  under  suspicion,  and  had  made  the  neces- 
sary arrangements  for  his  own  departure  with  young  Mr. 
Arnold — he  spent  in  walking  abroad  as  usual.  The  days 
that  followed  had  been  bitter  and  heavy.  He  had  liked 
neither  to  stop  within  doors  nor  to  go  abroad,  since  the  one 
course  might  arouse  inquiry  and  the  second  lead  to  his 
identification.  He  had  gone  to  my  Lord  Vaux's  house 
again  and  again,  with  his  friend  and  without  him;  he  had 
learned  of  the  details  of  Anthony's  capture,  though  he 
had  not  dared  even  to  attempt  to  get  speech  with  him; 
and,  further,  that  unless  the  rest  of  the  men  were  caught, 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  prove  anything  against  him.  One 
thing,  therefore,  he  prayed  for  with  all  his  heart — that 
the  rest  might  yet  escape.  He  told  his  party  something 
of  the  course  of  events,  but  not  too  much.  On  the  Sunday 
that  intervened  he  went  to  hear  mass  in  Fetter  Lane,  where 
numbers  of  Catholics  resorted;  and  there,  piece  by  piece, 
learned  more  of  the  plot  than  even  Anthony  had  told  him. 
Mr.  Arnold  was  a  Lancashire  man  and  a  young  convert 
of  Oxford — one  of  that  steady  small  stream  that  poured 
over  to  the  Continent — a  sufficiently  well-born  and  intelli- 
gent man  to  enjoy  acting  as  a  servant,  which  he  did  with 
considerable  skill.  It  was  common  enough  for  gentlemen 
to  ride  side  by  side  with  their  servants  when  they  had  left 
the  town;  and  by  the  time  that  the  two  were  clear  of  the 
few  scattered  houses  outside  the  City  gates,  Mr.  Arnold 
urged  on  his  horse,  and  they  rode  together. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  285 

Robin  was  in  somewhat  of  a  difficulty  as  to  how  far  he 
j?as  justified  in  speaking  of  what  he  knew.  It  was  true 
that  he  was  not  at  liberty  to  use  what  Anthony  had  origi- 
nally told  him;  but  the  letter  and  the  commission  which  he 
had  received  certainly  liberated  his  conscience  to  some  de- 
gree, since  it  told  him  plainly  enough  that  there  was  a 
plot  on  behalf  of  Mary,  that  certain  persons,  one  or  two 
of  whom  he  knew  for  himself,  were  involved  in  it,  that 
they  were  under  suspicion,  and  that  they  had  fled.  Ordi- 
nary discretion,  however,  was  enough  to  make  him  hold 
his  tongue,  beyond  saying,  as  he  had  said  already  to  the 
rest  of  them,  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  Mr. 
Babington,  now  in  prison,  to  Mary  Stuart.  Mr.  Arnold  had 
been  advertised  that  he  might  take  up  his  duties  in  Lan- 
cashire as  soon  as  he  liked ;  but,  because  of  his  inexperience 
and  youth,  it  had  been  decided  that  he  had  better  ride  with 
"  Mr.  Alban  "  so  far  as  Chartley  at  least,  and  thence,  if  all 
were  well,  go  on  to  Lancaster  itself,  where  his  family  was 
known,  and  whither  he  could  return,  for  the  present,  with- 
out suspicion. 

The  roads,  such  as  they  were,  were  in  a  terrible  state 
still  with  the  heavy  rain  of  a  few  days  ago,  and  the  further 
showers  that  had  fallen  in  the  night.  They  made  very  poor 
progress,  and  by  dinner-time  were  not  yet  in  sight  of  Wat- 
ford. But  they  pushed  on,  coming  at  last  about  one  o'clock 
to  that  little  town,  all  gathered  together  in  the  trench  of 
the  low  hills.  There  was  a  modest  inn  in  the  main 
street,  with  a  little  garden  behind  it;  and  while  Mr.  Ar- 
nold took  the  horses  off  for  watering,  Robin  went  through 
to  the  garden,  sat  down,  and  ordered  food  to  be  served 
for  himself  and  his  man  together.  The  day  was  warmer, 
and  the  sun  came  out  as  they  sat  over  their  meal.  When 
they  had  done,  Robin  sent  his  friend  off  again  for  the 


286  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

horses.  They  must  not  delay  longer  than  was  necessary, 
if  they  wished  to  sleep  at  Leighton,  and  give  the  horses 
their  proper  rest. 

When  he  was  left  alone,  he  fell  a-thinking  once  more; 
and,  what  with  the  morning's  ride  and  the  air  and  the  sun- 
shine, and  the  sense  of  liberty,  he  was  inclined  to  be  more 
cheerful.  Surely  England  was  large  enough  to  hide  the 
rest  of  the  plotters  for  a  time,  until  they  could  get  out  of 
it.  Anthony  was  taken,  indeed,  yet,  without  the  rest,  he 
might  very  well  escape  conviction.  Robin  had  not  been 
challenged  in  any  way;  the  gatekeepers  had  looked  at  him, 
indeed,  as  he  came  out  of  the  City;  but  so  they  always  did, 
and  the  landlady  here  had  run  her  eyes  over  him;  but  that 
was  the  way  of  landladies  who  wished  to  know  how  much 
should  be  charged  to  travellers.  And  if  he  had  come  out 
so  easily,  why  should  not  his  friends?  All  turned  now, 
to  his  mind,  on  whether  the  rest  of  the  conspirators  could 
evade  the  pursuivants  or  not. 

He  stood  up  presently  to  stretch  his  legs  before  mounting 
again,  and  as  he  stood  up  he  heard  running  footsteps  some- 
where beyond  the  house :  they  died  away ;  but  then  came  the 
sound  of  another  runner,  and  of  another,  and  he  heard 
voices  calling.  Then  a  window  was  flung  up  beyond  the 
house;  steps  came  rattling  down  the  stairs  within  and 
passed  out  into  the  street.  It  was  probably  a  bull 
that  had  escaped,  or  a  mad  dog,  he  thought,  or  some  rustic 
excitement  of  that  kind,  and  he  thought  he  would  go  and 
see  it  for  himself;  so  he  passed  out  through  the  house, 
just  in  time  to  meet  Mr.  Arnold  coming  round  with  the 
horses. 

"  What  was  the  noise  about?  "  he  asked. 

The  other  looked  at  him. 

"  I  heard  none,  sir,"  he  said.     "  I  was  in  the  stable." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  287 

Robin  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  It  seemed  as 
empty  as  it  should  be  on  a  summer's  day;  two  or  three 
women  were  at  the  doors  of  their  houses,  and  an  old  dog 
was  asleep  in  the  sun.  There  was  no  sign  of  any  disturb- 
ance. 

"Where  is  the  woman  of  the  house?"  asked  Robin. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

They  could  not  go  without  paying;  but  Robin  marvelled 
at  the  simplicity  of  these  folks,  to  leave  a  couple  of  guests 
free  to  ride  away;  he  went  within  again  and  called  out, 
but  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen. 

"  This  is  laughable,"  he  said,  coming  out  again.  "  Shall 
we  leave  a  mark  behind  us  and  be  off?  " 

"  Are  they  all  gone,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  other,  staring  at 
him. 

"  I  heard  some  running  and  calling  out  just  now,"  said 
Robin.  "  I  suppose  a  message  must  have  been  brought  to 
the  house." 

Then,  as  he  stood  still,  hesitating,  a  noise  of  voices  arose 
suddenly  round  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  a  group  of 
men  with  pitchforks  ran  out  from  a  gateway  on  the  other 
side,  fifty  yards  away,  crossed  the  road,  and  disappeared 
again.  Behind  them  ran  a  woman  or  two,  a  barking  dog, 
and  a  string  of  children.  But  Robin  thought  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  some  kind  of  officer's  uniform  at  the  head  of 
the  running  men,  and  his  heart  stood  still. 

IV 

Neither  of  the  two  spoke  for  a  moment. 
"  Wait  here  with  the  horses,"  said  Robin.     "  I  must  see 
what  all  this  is  about." 

Mr.  Arnold  was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  still,  and  he 
had  all  the  desire  of  a  boy,  if  he  saw  an  excited  crowd,  to 


288  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

join  himself  to  it.  But  he  was  being  a  servant  just  now, 
and  must  do  what  he  was  told.  So  he  waited  patiently  with 
the  two  horses  that  tossed  their  jingling  heads  and  stamped 
and  attempted  to  kick  flies  off  impossibly  remote  parts  of 
their  bodies.  Certainly,  the  excitement  was  growing.  After 
he  had  seen  his  friend  walk  quickly  down  the  road  and  turn 
off  where  the  group  of  rustically-armed  men  had  disap- 
peared in  the  direction  where  newly-made  haystacks  shaded 
their  gables  beyond  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  several  other 
figures  appeared  through  the  opposite  gateway  in  hot  pur- 
suit. One  was  certainly  a  guard  of  some  kind,  a  stout,  im- 
portant-looking fellow,  who  ran  and  wheezed  as  he  ran 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  the  inn  door.  The  women 
standing  before  the  houses,  too,  presently  were  after  the 
rest — all  except  one  old  dame,  who  put  her  head  forth, 
and  peered  this  way  and  that  with  a  vindictive  anger 
at  having  been  left  all  alone.  More  yet  showed  themselves 
— children  dragging  puppies  after  them,  an  old  man  with 
a  large  rusty  sword,  a  couple  of  lads  each  with  a  pike — 
these  appeared,  like  figures  in  a  pantomime  play,  whisking 
into  sight  from  between  the  houses,  and  all  disappearing 
again  immediately. 

And  then,  all  on  a  sudden,  a  great  clamour  of  voices 
began,  all  shouting  together,  as  if  some  quarry  had  been 
sighted:  it  grew  louder,  sharp  cries  of  command  rang  above 
the  roar.  Then  there  burst  out  of  the  side,  where  all  had 
gone  in,  a  ball  of  children,  which  exploded  into  fragments 
and  faced  about,  still  with  a  couple  of  puppies  that  barked 
shrilly;  and  then,  walking  very  fast  and  upright,  came 
Mr.  Robin  Audrey,  white-faced  and  stern,  straight  up  to 
where  the  lad  waited  with  the  horses. 

Robin  jerked  his  head. 

"  Quick !  "  he  said.  "  We  must  be  off,  or  we  shall  be 
here  all  night."  He  gathered  up  his  reins  for  mounting. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  289 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  other,  unable  to  be  silent. 

"  They  have  caught  some  fellows/'  he  said. 

"  And  the  inn-account,  sir  ?  " 

Robin  pulled  out  a  couple  of  coins  from  his  pouch. 

"  Put  that  on  the  table  within/'  he  said.  "  We  can  wait 
no  longer.  Give  me  your  reins !  " 

His  manner  was  so  dreadful  that  the  young  man  dared 
ask  no  more.  He  ran  in,  laid  the  coins  down  (they  were 
more  than  double  what  could  have  been  asked  for  their 
entertainment),  came  out  again,  and  mounted  his  own  horse 
that  his  friend  held.  As  they  rode  down  the  street,  he  could 
not  refrain  from  looking  back,  as  a  great  roar  of  voices 
broke  out  again;  but  he  could  see  no  more  than  a  crowd 
of  men,  with  the  pitchforks  moving  like  spears  on  the  out- 
skirt,  as  if  they  guarded  prisoners  within,  come  out  be- 
tween the  houses  and  turn  up  towards  the  inn  they  them- 
selves had  just  left. 

As  they  came  clear  of  the  village  and  out  again  upon  the 
open  road,  Robin  turned  to  him,  and  his  face  was  still  pale 
and  stern. 

"  Mr.  Arnold,"  he  said,  "  those  were  the  last  of  my 
friends  that  I  told  you  of.  Now  they  have  them  all,  and 
there  is  no  longer  any  hope.  They  found  them  behind  the 
haystacks  next  to  the  garden  where  we  dined.  They  must 
have  been  there  all  night." 


IT  was  in  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  after  their  start 
that,  riding  up  alongside  of  the  Blythe,  they  struck  out  to 
the  northwest,  away  from  the  trees,  and  saw  the  woods 
of  Chartley  not  half  a  mile  away.  Robin  sighed  with  relief, 
though,  as  a  fact,  his  adventure  was  scarcely  more  than  be- 
gun, since  he  had  yet  to  learn  how  he  could  get  speech 
with  the  Queen;  but,  at  least,  he  was  within  sight  of  her, 
and  of  his  own  country  as  well.  Far  away,  eastwards,  be- 
yond the  hills,  not  twenty  miles  off,  lay  Derby. 

It  had  been  a  melancholy  ride,  in  spite  of  the  air  of 
freedom  through  which  they  rode,  since  news  had  come  to 
them,  in  more  than  one  place,  of  the  fortunes  of  the  Bab- 
ington  party.  A  courier,  riding  fast,  had  passed  them  as 
they  sighted  Buckingham;  and  by  the  time  they  came  in, 
he  was  gone  again,  on  Government  business  (it  was  said), 
and  the  little  town  hummed  with  rumours,  out  of  which 
emerged,  at  any  rate,  the  certainty  that  the  whole  com- 
pany had  been  captured.  At  Coventry,  again,  the  tidings 
had  travelled  faster  than  themselves;  for  here  it  was  re- 
ported that  Mr.  Babington  and  Mr.  Charnoc  had  been 
racked;  and  in  Lichfield,  last  of  all,  the  tale  was  complete, 
and  (as  they  learned  later)  tolerably  accurate  too. 

It  was  from  a  clerk  in  the  inn  there  that  the  story  came, 
who  declared  that  there  was  no  secrecy  about  the  matter 
any  longer,  and  that  he  himself  had  seen  the  tale  in  writing. 
It  ran  as  follows: 

The  entire  plot  had  been  known  from  the  beginning. 
290 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  291 

Gilbert  Gifford  had  been  an  emissary  of  Walsingham's 
throughout;  and  every  letter  that  passed  to  and  from  the 
various  personages  had  passed  through  the  Secretary's 
hands  and  been  deciphered  in  his  house.  There  never  had 
been  one  instant  in  which  Mr.  Walsingham  had  been  at 
fault,  or  in  the  dark:  he  had  gone  so  far,  it  was  reported, 
as  to  insert  in  one  of  the  letters  that  was  to  go  to  Mr. 
Babington  a  request  for  the  names  of  all  the  conspirators, 
and  in  return  there  had  come  from  him,  not  only  a  list  of 
the  names,  but  a  pictured  group  of  them,  with  Mr.  Bab- 
ington himself  in  the  midst.  This  picture  had  actually 
been  shown  to  her  Grace  in  order  that  she  might  guard  her- 
self against  private  assassination,  since  two  or  three  of  the 
group  were  in  her  own  household. 

"  It  is  like  to  go  hard  with  the  Scots  Queen !  "  said  the 
clerk  bitterly.  "  She  has  gone  too  far  this  time." 

Robin  said  nothing  to  commit  himself,  for  he  did  not 
know  on  which  side  the  man  ranged  himself;  but  he  drew 
him  aside  after  dinner,  and  asked  whether  it  might  be 
possible  to  get  a  sight  of  the  Queen. 

"  I  am  riding  to  Derby,"  he  said,  "  with  my  man.  But 
if  to  turn  aside  at  Chartley  would  give  us  a  chance  of  seeing 
her,  I  would  do  so.  A  queen  in  captivity  is  worth  seeing. 
And  I  can  see  you  are  a  man  of  influence." 

The  clerk  looked  at  him  shrewdly;  he  was  a  man  plainly 
in  love  with  his  own  importance,  and  the  priest's  last  words 
were  balm  to  him. 

"  It  might  be  done,"  he  said.     "  I  do  not  know." 

Robin  saw  the  impression  he  had  made,  and  that  the 
butter  could  not  be  too  thick. 

"  I  am  sure  you  could  do  it  for  me,"  he  said,  "  if  any  man 
could.  But  I  understand  that  a  man  of  your  position  may 
be  unwilling " 

The  clerk  solemnly  laid  a  hand  on  the  priest's  arm. 


292  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  this,"  he  said.  "  Get  speech  with 
Mr.  Bourgoign,  her  apothecary.  He  alone  has  access  to  her 
now,  besides  her  own  women.  It  might  be  he  could  put  you 
in  some  private  place  to  see  her  go  by." 

This  was  not  much  use,  thought  Robin;  but,  at  least, 
it  gave  him  something  to  begin  at:  so  he  thanked  the  clerk 
solemnly  and  reverentially,  and  was  rewarded  by  another 
discreet  pat  on  the  arm.  rfr 

The  sight  of  the  Chartley  woods,  tall  and  splendid  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  already  tinged  here  and  there 
with  the  first  marks  of  autumn,  brought  his  indecision  to  a 
point;  and  he  realized  that  he  had  no  plan.  He  had  heard 
that  Mary  occasionally  rode  abroad,  and  he  hoped  perhaps 
to  get  speech  with  her  that  way;  but  what  he  had  heard 
from  the  clerk  and  others  showed  him  that  this  small  degree 
of  liberty  was  now  denied  to  the  Queen.  In  some  way  or 
another  he  must  get  news  of  Mr.  Bourgoign.  Beyond  that 
he  knew  nothing. 

The  great  gates  of  Chartley  were  closed  as  the  two  came 
up  to  them.  There  was  a  lodge  beside  them,  and  a  sentry 
stood  there.  A  bell  was  ringing  from  the  great  house  within 
the  woods,  no  doubt  for  supper-time,  but  there  was  no 
other  human  being  besides  the  sentry  to  be  seen.  So  Robin 
did  not  even  check  his  weary  horse ;  but  turned  only,  with  a 
deliberately  curious  air,  as  he  went  past  and  rode  straight 
on.  Then,  as  he  rounded  a  corner  he  saw  smoke  going  up 
from  houses,  it  seemed,  outside  the  park. 

"  What  is  that?  "  asked  Arnold  suddenly.  "  Do  you 
hear ?  " 

A  sound  of  a  galloping  horse  grew  louder  behind  them, 
and  a  moment  afterwards  the  sound  of  another.  The  two 
priests  were  still  in  view  of  the  sentry;  and  knowing  that 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  293 

Chartley  was  guarded  now  as  if  it  had  all  the  treasures 
of  the  earth  within,  Robin  reflected  that  to  show  too  little 
interest  might  arouse  as  sharp  suspicion  as  too  much.  So 
he  wheeled  his  horse  round  and  stopped  to  look. 

They  heard  the  challenge  of  the  sentry  within,  and  then 
the  unbarring  of  the  gates.  An  instant  later  a  courier 
dashed  out  and  wheeled  to  the  right,  while  at  the  same  time 
the  second  galloper  came  to  view — another  courier  on  ?. 
jaded  horse;  and  the  two  passed — the  one  plainly  riding  to 
London,  the  second  arriving  from  it.  The  gates  were  yet 
open;  but  the  second  was  challenged  once  more  before  he 
was  allowed  to  pass  and  his  hoofs  sounded  on  the  road  that 
led  to  the  house.  Then  the  gates  clashed  together  again. 

Robin  turned  his  horse's  head  once  more  towards  the 
houses,  conscious  more  than  ever  how  near  he  was  to  the 
nerves  of  England's  life,  and  what  tragic  ties  they  were 
between  the  two  royal  cousins,  that  demanded  such  a 
furious  and  frequent  exchange  of  messages. 

"  We  must  do  our  best  here,"  he  said,  nodding  towards 
the  little  hamlet. 


II 

It  was  plainly  a  newly-grown  little  group  of  houses  that 
bordered  the  side  of  the  road  away  from  the  enclosed  park 
• — sprung  up  as  a  kind  of  overflow  lodging  for  the  de- 
pendants necessary  to  such  a  suddenly  increased  household; 
for  the  houses  were  no  more  than  wooden  dwellings,  ill- 
roofed  and  ill-built,  with  the  sap  scarcely  yet  finished 
oozing  from  the  ends  of  the  beams  and  the  planks.  Smoke 
was  issuing,  in  most  cases,  from  rough  holes  cut  in  the  roofs, 
and  in  the  last  rays  of  sunshine  two  or  three  men  were  sit- 
ting on  stools  set  out  before  the  houses. 

Robin  checked  his  horse  before  a  man  whose  face  seemed 


294  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

kindly,  and  who  saluted  courteously  the  fine  gentleman 
who  looked  about  with  such  an  air. 

"  My  horse  is  dead-spent/'  he  said  curtly.  "  Is  there  an 
inn  here  where  my  man  and  I  can  find  lodging?  " 

The  man  shook  his  head,  looking  at  the  horse  compas- 
sionately. He  had  the  air  of  a  groom  about  him. 

"  I  fear  not,  sir,  not  within  five  miles ;  at  least,  not  with 
a  room  to  spare." 

"  This  is  Chartley,  is  it  not  ?  "  asked  the  priest,  noticing 
that  the  next  man,  too,  was  listening. 

"  Aye,  sir." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  my  friend  Mr.  Bourgoign  lodges  in 
the  house,  or  without  the  gates  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Bourgoign,  sir  ?    A  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Robin,  smiling,  and  keeping  at  least 
within  the  letter  of  truth. 

The  man  mused  a  moment. 

"  It  is  possible  he  might  help  you,  sir.  He  lodges  in  the 
house;  but  he  comes  sometimes  to  see  a  woman  that  is 
sick  here." 

Robin  demanded  where  she  lived. 

"  At  the  last  house,  sir — a  little  beyond  the  rest.  She  is 
one  of  her  Grace's  kitchen-women.  They  moved  her  out 
here,  thinking  it  might  be  the  fever  she  had." 

This  was  plainly  a  communicative  fellow;  but  the  priest 
thought  it  wiser  not  to  take  too  much  interest.  He  tossed 
the  man  a  coin  and  rode  on. 

The  last  house  was  a  little  better  built  than  the  others, 
and  stood  further  back  from  the  road.  Robin  dismounted 
here,  and,  with  a  nod  to  Mr.  Arnold,  who  was  keeping  his 
countenance  admirably,  walked  up  to  the  door  and  knocked 
on  it.  It  was  opened  instantly,  as  if  he  were  expected, 
but  the  woman's  face  fell  when  she  saw  him. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  295 

"  Is  Mr.  Bourgoign  within  ?  "  asked  the  priest. 

The  woman  glanced  over  him  before  answering,  and 
then  out  to  where  the  horses  waited. 

"  No,  sir/'  she  said  at  last.  "  We  were  looking  for  him 
just  now  .  .  ."  (She  broke  off.)  "  He  is  coming  now/' 
she  said. 

Robin  turned,  and  there,  walking  down  the  road,  was  an 
old  man,  leaning  on  a  stick,  richly  and  soberly  dressed  in 
black,  wearing  a  black  beaver  hat  on  his  head.  A  man- 
servant followed  him  at  a  little  distance. 

The  priest  saw  that  here  was  an  opportunity  ready-made ; 
but  there  was  one  more  point  on  which  he  must  satisfy  him- 
self first,  and  what  seemed  to  him  an  inspiration  came  to 
his  mind. 

"  He  looks  like  a  minister,"  he  said  carelessly. 

A  curious  veiled  look  came  over  the  woman's  face.  Robin 
made  a  bold  venture.  He  smiled  full  in  her  face. 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  he  said.  "  I  quarrel  with  no  man's 
religion;"  and,  at  the  look  in  her  face  at  this,  he  added: 
"You  are  a  Catholic,  I  suppose?  Well,  I  am  one  too. 
And  so,  I  suppose,  is  Mr.  Bourgoign." 

The  woman  smiled  tremulously,  and  the  fear  left  her 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "  All  the  friends  of  her  Grace  are 
Catholics,  I  think." 

He  nodded  to  her  again  genially.  Then,  turning,  he 
went  to  meet  the  apothecary,  who  was  now  not  thirty  yards 
away. 

It  was  a  pathetic  old  figure  that  was  hobbling  towards 
him.  He  seemed  a  man  of  near  seventy  years  old,  with  a 
close-cropped  beard  and  spectacles  on  his  nose,  and  he 
carried  himself  heavily  and  ploddingly.  Robin  argued  to 
himself  that  it  must  be  a  kindly  man  who  would  come  out 


296  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

at  this  hour — perhaps  the  one  hour  he  had  to  himself — to 
visit  a  poor  dependant.  Yet  all  this  was  sheer  conjecture; 
and,  as  the  old  man  came  near,  he  saw  there  was  something 
besides  kindliness  in  the  eyes  that  met  his  own. 

He  saluted  boldly  and  deferentially. 

"  Mr.  Bourgoign/'  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  must  speak 
five  minutes  with  you.  And  I  ask  you  to  make  as  if  you 
were  my  friend." 

The  old  man  stiffened  like  a  watch-dog.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  on  his  guard. 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  sir." 

"  I  entreat  you  to  do  as  I  ask.  I  am  a  priest,  sir.  I 
entreat  you  to  take  my  hand  as  if  we  were  friends." 

A  look  of  surprise  went  over  the  physician's  face. 

"  You  can  send  me  packing  in  ten  minutes,"  went  on 
Robin  rapidly,  at  the  same  time  holding  out  his  hand. 
"  And  we  will  talk  here  in  the  road,  if  you  will." 

There  was  still  a  moment's  hesitation.  Then  he  took  the 
priest's  hand. 

"  I  am  come  straight  from  London,"  went  on  Robin, 
still  speaking  clearly,  yet  with  his  lips  scarcely  moving. 
"  A  fortnight  ago  I  talked  with  Mr.  Babington." 

The  old  man  drew  his  arm  close  within  his  own. 

"  You  have  said  enough,  or  too  much,  at  present,  sir. 
You  shall  walk  with  me  a  hundred  yards  up  this  road,  and 
justify  what  you  have  said." 

"  We  have  had  a  weary  ride  of  it,  Mr.  Bourgoign.  .  .  . 
I  am  on  the  road  to  Derby,"  went  on  Robin,  talking  loudly 
enough  now  to  be  overheard,  as  he  hoped,  by  any  listeners. 
"  And  my  horse  is  spent.  ...  I  will  tell  you  my  busi- 
ness," he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  as  soon  as  you  bid 
me." 

Fifty  yards  up  the  road  the  old  man  pressed  his  arm 
again. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  297 

"  You  can  tell  me  now,  sir,"  he  said.  "  But  we  will  walk, 
if  you  please,  while  you  do  so." 

"  First,"  said  Robin,  after  a  moment's  consideration  as 
to  his  best  beginning,  "  I  will  tell  you  the  name  I  go  by. 
It  is  Mr.  Alban.  I  am  a  newly-made  priest,  as  I  told  you 
j  ust  now ;  I  came  from  Rheims  scarcely  a  fortnight  ago.  I 
am  from  Derbyshire;  and  I  will  tell  you  my  proper  name 
at  the  end,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Repeat  the  blessing  of  the  deacon  by  the  priest  at 
mass,"  murmured  Mr.  Bourgoign  to  the  amazement  of  the 
other,  without  the  change  of  an  inflection  in  his  voice  or  a 
movement  of  his  hand. 

"  Dominus  sit  in  corde  tuo  et  in  labiis "  began  the 

priest. 

"  That  is  enough,  sir,  for  the  present.     Well?  " 

"  Next,"  said  Robin,  hardly  yet  recovered  from  the  ex- 
traordinary promptness  of  the  challenge — "  Next,  I  was 
speaking  with  Mr.  Babington  a  fortnight  ago." 

"  In  what  place  ?  " 

"  }n  the  inn  called  the  '  Red  Bull,'  in  Cheapside." 

"  Good.  I  have  lodged  there  myself,"  said  the  other. 
"  And  you  are  one " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Robin,  "  I  do  not  deny  that  I  spoke  with 
them  all — with  Mr.  Charnoc  and " 

"  That  is  enough  of  those  names,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
with  a  small  and  fearful  lift  of  his  white  eyebrows,  as  if 
he  dreaded  the  very  trees  that  nearly  met  overhead  in  this 
place.  "  And  what  is  your  business  ?  " 

"  I  have  satisfied  you,  then "  began  Robin. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  You  have  answered  sufficiently  so  far ; 
that  is  all.  I  wish  to  know  your  business." 

"  The  night  following  the  day  on  which  the  men  fled,  of 
whom  I  have  just  spoken,  I  had  a  letter  from — from  their 


298  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

leader.  He  told  me  that  all  was  lost,  and  he  gave  me  a 
letter  to  her  Grace  here " 

He  felt  the  thin  old  sinews  under  his  hand  contract  sud- 
denly, and  paused.  H..' 

"  Go  on,  sir,"  whispered  the  old  voice. 

"  A  letter  to  her  Grace,  sir.  I  was  to  use  my  discretion 
whether  I  carried  it  with  me,  or  learned  it  by  rote.  I  have 
other  interests  at  stake  besides  this,  and  I  used  my  discre- 
tion, and  destroyed  the  letter." 

"  But  you  have  some  writing,  no  doubt " 

"  I  have  none,"  said  Robin.     "  I  have  my  word  only." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Was  the  message  private  ?  " 

"  Private  only  to  her  Grace's  enemies.  I  will  tell  you 
the  substance  of  it  now,  if  you  will." 

The  old  man,  without  answering,  steered  his  companion 
nearer  to  the  wall ;  then  he  relinquished  the  supporting  arm, 
and  leaned  himself  against  the  stones,  fixing  his  eyes  full 
upon  the  priest,  and  searching,  as  it  seemed,  every  feature 
of  his  face  and  every  detail  of  his  dress. 

"  Was  the  message  important,  sir  ?  " 

"  Important  only  to  those  who  value  love  and  fidelity." 

"  I  could  deliver  it  myself,  then?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir.  If  you  will  give  me  your  word  to  de- 
liver it  to  her  Grace,  as  I  deliver  it  to  you,  and  to  none 
else,  I  will  ride  on  and  trouble  you  no  more." 

"  That  is  enough,"  said  the  physician  decidedly.  "  I  am 
completely  satisfied,  Mr.  Alban.  All  that  remains  is  to 
consider  how  I  can  get  you  to  her  Grace." 

"But  if  you  yourself  will  deliver "  began  Robin. 

An  extraordinary  spasm  passed  over  the  other's  face, 
that  might  denote  any  fierce  emotion,  either  of  anger  or 
grief. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  that?  "  he  hissed.     "  Why,  man. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  299 

where  is  your  priesthood?  Do  you  think  the  poor  dame 
within  would  not  give  her  soul  for  a  priest?  .  .  .  Why,  I 
have  prayed  God  night  and  day  to  send  us  a  priest.  She 
is  half  mad  with  sorrow;  and  who  knows  whether  ever 
again  in  this  world " 

He  broke  off,  his  face  all  distorted  with  pain;  and  Robin 
felt  a  strange  thrill  of  glory  at  the  thought  that  he  bore 
with  him,  in  virtue  of  his  priesthood  only,  so  much  con- 
solation. He  faced  for  the  first  time  that  tremendous  call 
of  which  he  had  heard  so  much  in  Rheims — that  desolate 
cry  of  souls  that  longed  and  longed  in  vain  for  those  gifts 
which  a  priest  of  Christ  could  alone  bestow.  .  .  . 

"...  The  question  is,"  the  old  man  was  saying  more 
quietly,  "  how  to  get  you  in  to  her  Grace.  Why,  Sir  Amyas 
opens  her  letters  even,  and  reseals  them  again !  He  thinks 
me  a  fool,  and  that  I  do  not  know  what  he  does.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know  aught  of  medicine  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  I  know  only  what  country  folks  know  of  herbs." 

"  And  their  names — their  Latin  names,  man  ?  "  pursued 
the  other,  leaning  forward. 

Robin  half  smiled. 

"  Now  you  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  "  I  have  learned  a  good 
many,  as  a  pastime,  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  was  something  of 
a  herbalist,  even.  But  I  have  forgotten " 

"  Bah !  that  would  be  enough  for  Sir  Amyas " 

He  turned  and  spat  venomously  at  the  name. 

"  Sir  Amyas  knows  nothing  save  his  own  vile  trade.  He 
is  a  lout — no  more.  He  is  as  grim  as  a  goose,  always. 
And  you  have  a  town  air  about  you,"  he  went  on,  running 
his  eyes  critically  over  the  young  man's  dress.  "  Those 
are  French  clothes  ?  " 

"  They  were  bought  in  France." 

The  two  stood  silent.  Robin's  excitement  beat  in  all  his 
f  eins,  in  spite  of  his  weariness.  He  had  come  to  bear  a 


300  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

human  message  only  to  a  bereaved  Queen;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  his  work  were  to  be  rather  the  bearing  of  a  Divine 
message  to  a  lonely  soul.  He  watched  the  old  man's  face 
eagerly.  It  was  sunk  in  thought.  .  .  .  Then  Mr.  Bour- 
goign  took  him  abruptly  by  the  arm. 

"  Give  me  your  arm  again,"  he  said.  "  I  am  an  old  man. 
We  must  be  going  back  again.  It  seems  as  if  God  heard 
our  prayers  after  all.  I  will  see  you  disposed  for  to-night 
— you  and  your  man  and  the  horses,  and  I  will  send  for 
you  myself  in  the  morning.  Could  you  say  mass,  think 
you?  if  I  found  you  a  secure  place — and  bring  Our  Lord's 
Body  with  you  in  the  morning?  " 

He  checked  the  young  man,  to  hear  his  answer. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Robin.  "  I  have  all  things  that  are 
needed." 

"  Then  you  shall  say  mass  in  any  case  .  .  .  and  reserve 
our  Lord's  Body  in  a  pyx.  .  .  .  Now  listen  to  me.  If  my 
plan  falls  as  I  hope,  you  must  be  a  physician  to-morrow, 
and  have  practised  your  trade  in  Paris.  You  have  been  in 
Paris?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Bah !  .  .  .  Well,  no  more  has  Sir  Amy  as !  .  .  .  You 
have  practised  your  trade  in  Paris,  and  God  has  given  you 
great  skill  in  the  matter  of  herbs.  And,  upon  hearing  that 
I  was  in  Chartley,  you  inquired  for  your  old  friend,  whose 
acquaintance  you  had  made  in  Paris,  five  years  ago.  And 
I,  upon  hearing  you  were  come,  secured  your  willingness 
to  see  my  patient,  if  you  would  but  consent.  Your  reputa- 
tion has  reached  me  even  here;  you  have  attended  His 
Majesty  in  Paris  on  three  occasions;  you  restored  Made- 
moiselle Elise,  of  the  family  of  Guise,  from  the  very  point 

of  death.  You  are  but  a  young  man  still;  yet Bah! 

It  is  arranged.  You  understand?  Now  come  with  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  spite  of  his  plans  and  his  hopes  and  his  dreams,  it  was 
with  an  amazement  beyond  all  telling,  that  Mr.  Robert 
Alban  found  himself,  at  nine  o'clock  next  morning,  con- 
ducted by  two  men  through  the  hall  at  Chartley  to  the 
little  parlour  where  he  was  to  await  Sir  Amyas  Paulet  and 
the  Queen's  apothecary. 

Matters  had  been  arranged  last  night  with  that  prompt- 
ness which  alone  could  make  the  tale  possible.  He  had 
walked  back  with  the  old  man  in  full  view  of  the  little 
hamlet,  to  all  appearances,  the  best  of  old  friends ;  and 
after  providing  for  a  room  in  the  sick  woman's  house  for 
Robin  himself,  another  in  another  house  for  Mr.  Arnold, 
and  stabling  for  the  horses  in  a  shed  where  occasionally  the 
spent  horses  of  the  couriers  were  housed  when  Chartley 
stables  were  overflowing — after  all  this  had  been  arranged 
by  Mr.  Bourgoign  in  person,  the  two  walked  on  to  the  great 
gates  of  the  park,  where  they  took  an  affectionate  farewell 
within  hearing  of  the  sentry,  the  apothecary  promising  to 
see  Sir  Amyas  that  night  and  to  communicate  with  his 
friend  in  the  morning.  Robin  had  learned  previously  how 
strict  was  the  watch  set  about  the  Queen's  person,  par- 
ticularly since  the  news  of  the  Babington  plot  had  first 
reached  the  authorities,  and  of  the  extraordinary  difficulty 
to  the  approach  of  any  stranger  to  her  presence.  Nau 
and  Curie,  her  two  secretaries,  had  been  arrested  and  per- 
haps racked  a  week  or  ten  days  before;  all  the  Queen's 
papers  had  been  taken  from  her,  and  even  her  jewellery 

301 


302  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

and  pictures  sent  off  to  Elizabeth;  and  the  only  persons 
ordinarily  allowed  to  speak  with  her,  besides  her  gaoler, 
were  two  of  her  women,  and  Mr.  Bourgoign  himself. 

That  morning  then,  before  six  o'clock,  Robin  had  said 
mass  in  the  sick  woman's  room  and  given  her  communion, 
with  her  companion,  who  answered  his  mass,  as  it  was 
thought  more  prudent  that  the  other  priest  should  not  even 
be  present;  and,  at  the  close  of  the  mass  he  had  reserved 
in  a  little  pyx,  hidden  beneath  his  clothes,  a  consecrated 
particle.  Mr.  Bourgoign  had  said  that  he  would  see  to 
it  that  the  Queen  should  be  fasting  up  to  ten  o'clock  that 
day. 

And  now  the  last  miracle  had  been  accomplished.  A 
servant  had  come  down  late  the  night  before,  with  a  dis- 
creet letter  from  the  apothecary,  saying  that  Sir  Amyas 
had  consented  to  receive  and  examine  for  himself  the 
travelling  physician  from  Paris;  and  here  now  went  Robin, 
striving  to  remember  the  old  Latin  names  he  had  learned 
as  a  boy,  and  to  carry  a  medical  air  with  him. 

The  parlour  in  which  he  found  himself  was  furnished 
severely  and  even  rather  sparely,  owing,  perhaps,  he 
thought,  to  the  temporary  nature  of  the  household.  It  was 
the  custom  in  great  houses  to  carry  with  the  family,  from 
house  to  house,  all  luxuries  such  as  extra  hangings  or 
painted  pictures  or  carpets,  as  well  as  even  such  things  as 
cooking  utensils ;  and  in  the  Queen's  sudden  removal  back 
again  from  Tixall,  many  matters  must  have  been  neglected. 
The  oak  wainscoting  was  completely  bare;  and  over  the 
upper  parts  of  the  walls  in  many  places  the  stones  showed 
through  between  the  ill-fitting  tapestries.  A  sheaf  of  pikes 
stood  in  one  corner;  an  oil  portrait  of  an  unknown  worthy 
in  the  dress  of  fifty  years  ago  hung  over  one  of  the  doors; 
a  large  round  oak  table,  with  ink-horn  and  pounce-box, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  303 

stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  stools  beside  it:  there 
was  no  hearth  or  chimney  visible;  and  there  was  no  tapes- 
try upon  the  floor:  a  skin  only  lay  between  the  windows. 
The  priest  sat  down  and  waited. 

He  had  enough  to  occupy  his  mind;  for  not  only  had 
he  the  thought  of  the  character  he  was  to  sustain  presently 
under  the  scrutiny  of  a  suspicious  man;  but  he  had  the 
prospect,  as  he  hoped,  of  coming  into  the  presence  of  the 
most-talked-of  woman  in  Europe,  and  of  ministering  to  her 
as  a  priest  alone  could  do,  in  her  sorest  need.  His  hand 
went  to  his  breast  as  he  considered  it,  and  remembered 
What  he  bore  .  .  .  and  he  felt  the  tiny  flat  circular  case 
press  upon  his  heart.  .  .  . 

For  his  imagination  was  all  aflame  at  the  thought  of 
Mary.  Not  only  had  he  been  kindled  again  and  again  in 
the  old  days  by  poor  Anthony's  talk,  until  the  woman 
seemed  to  him  half-deified  already;  but  man  after  man  had 
repeated  the  same  tale,  that  she  was,  in  truth,  that  which 
her  lean  cousin  of  England  desired  to  be  thought — a  very 
paragon  of  women,  innocent,  holy,  undefiled,  yet  of  charm 
to  drive  men  to  their  knees  before  her  presence.  It  was 
said  that  she  was  as  one  of  those  strange  moths  which, 
confined  behind  glass,  will  draw  their  mates  out  of  the 
darkness  to  beat  themselves  to  death  against  her  prison; 
she  was  exquisite,  they  said,  in  her  pale  beauty,  and  yet 
more  exquisite  in  her  pain;  she  exuded  a  faint  and  intoxi- 
cating perfume  of  womanliness,  like  a  crushed  herb.  Yet 
she  was  to  be  worshipped,  rather  than  loved — a  sacrament 
to  be  approached  kneeling,  an  incarnate  breath  of  heaven, 
the  more  lovely  from  the  vileness  into  which  her  life  had 
been  cast  and  the  slanders  that  were  about  her  name.  .  .  . 
More  marvellous  than  all  was  that  those  who  knew  her 
best  and  longest  loved  her  most;  her  servants  wept  or 
groaned  themselves  into  fevers  if  they  were  excluded  from 


304  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

her  too  long;  of  her  as  of  the  Wisdom  of  old  might  it  be 
said  that,  "  They  who  ate  her  hungered  yet,  and  they  who 
drank  her  thirsted  yet."  ...  It  was  to  this  miracle  of 
humanity,  then,  that  this  priest  was  to  come.  .  .  . 

He  sat  up  suddenly,  once  more  pressing  his  hand  to  his 
breast,  where  his  Treasure  lay  hidden,  as  he  heard  steps 
crossing  the  paved  hall  outside.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet 
and  bowed  as  a  tall  man  came  swiftly  in,  followed  by  the 
apothecary. 

II 

It  was  a  lean,  harsh-faced  man  that  he  saw,  long-mous- 
tached  and  melancholy-eyed — "  grim  as  a  goose,"  as  the 
physician  had  said — wearing,  even  in  this  guarded  house- 
hold, a  half-breast  and  cap  of  steel.  A  long  sword  jingled 
beside  him  on  the  stone  floor  and  clashed  with  his  spurred 
boots.  He  appeared  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  be  the 
companion  of  a  sorrowing  Queen;  and  it  was  precisely  for 
this  reason  that  he  had  been  chosen  to  replace  the  courtly 
lord  Shrewsbury  and  the  gentle  Sir  Ralph  Sadler.  (Her 
Grace  of  England  said  that  she  had  had  enough  of  nurses 
for  gaolers.)  His  voice,  too,  resembled  the  bitter  clash  of 
a  key  in  a  lock. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  Mr.  Bourgoign  tells  me 
you  are  a  friend  of  his." 

"  I  have  that  honour,  sir." 

"  You  met  in  Paris,  eh  ?  .  .  .  And  you  profess  a  knowl- 
edge of  herbs  beyond  the  ordinary?  " 

"  Mr.  Bourgoign  is  good  enough  to  say  so." 

"  And  you  are  after  her  Grace  of  Scotland,  as  they  call 
her,  like  all  the  rest  of  them,  eh?  " 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  put  what  art  I  possess  at  her 
Grace  of  Scotland's  service." 


COME  RACKS     COME  ROPE!  305 

"  Traitors  say  as  much  as  that,  sir." 

"  In  the  cause  of  treachery,  no  doubt,  sir." 

Sir  Amyas  barked  a  kind  of  laugh. 

"  Vous  avez  raisong,"  he  said  with  a  deplorable  accent. 
"  As  her  Grace  would  say.  And  you  come  purely  by  chance 
to  Chartley,  no  doubt !  " 

The  sneer  was  unmistakable.     Robin  met  it  full. 

"  Not  for  one  moment,  sir.  I  was  on  my  way  to  Derby. 
I  could  have  saved  a  few  miles  if  I  had  struck  north  long 
ago.  But  Chartley  is  interesting  in  these  days." 

(He  saw  Mr.  Bourgoign's  eyes  gleam  with  satisfaction.) 

"  That  is  honest  at  least,  sir.  And  why  is  Chartley 
interesting  ?  " 

"  Because  her  Grace  is  here,"  answered  Robin  with  sub- 
lime simplicity. 

Sir  Amyas  barked  again.  It  seemed  he  liked  this  way 
of  talk.  For  a  moment  or  two  his  eyes  searched  Robin — • 
hard,  narrow  eyes  like  a  dog's;  he  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"Where  are  your  drugs,  sir?" 

Robin  smiled. 

"  A  herbalist  does  not  need  to  carry  drugs,"  he  said. 
"  They  grow  in  every  hedgerow  if  a  man  has  eyes  to  see 
what  God  has  given  him." 

"  That  is  true  enough.  I  would  we  had  more  talk  about 
God  His  Majesty  in  this  household,  and  less  of  Popish 
trinkets  and  fiddle-faddle.  .  .  .  Well,  sir;  do  you  think 
you  can  cure  her  ladyship  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  opinion  on  the  point  at  all,  sir.  I  do  not 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  her — beyond  what  Mr.  Bour- 
goign  has  told  me,"  he  added  hastily,  remembering  the 
supposed  situation. 

The  soldier  paid  no  attention.  Like  all  slow-witted  men, 
he  was  following  up  an  irrelevant  train  of  thought  from  his 
own  last  sentence  but  one. 


306  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  Fiddle-faddle !  "  he  said  again.  "  I  am  sick  of  her 
megrims  and  her  vapours  and  her  humours.  Has  she  not 
blood  and  bones  like  the  rest  of  us?  And  yet  she  cannot 
take  her  food  nor  her  drink,  nor  sleep  like  an  honest  woman. 
And  I  do  not  wonder  at  it;  for  that  is  what  she  is  not. 
They  will  say  she  is  poisoned,  I  dare  say.  .  .  .  Well,  sir; 
I  suppose  you  had  best  see  her;  but  in  my  presence,  re- 
member, sir;  in  my  presence." 

Robin's  spirits  sank  like  a  stone.  .  .  .  Moreover,  he 
would  be  instantly  detected  as  a  knave  (though  that  hon- 
estly seemed  a  lesser  matter  to  him),  if  he  attempted  to 
talk  medically  in  Sir  Amyas'  presence;  unless  that  warrior 
was  truly  as  great  a  clod  as  he  seemed.  He  determined  to 
risk  it.  He  bowed. 

"  I  can  at  least  try  my  poor  skill,  sir,"  he  said. 

Sir  Amyas  instantly  turned,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  to 
beckon  them,  and  clanked  out  again  into  the  hall.  There 
was  not  a  moment's  opportunity  for  the  two  conspirators 
to  exchange  even  a  word;  for  there,  in  the  hall,  stood  the 
two  men  who  had  brought  Robin  in,  to  keep  guard;  and 
as  the  party  passed  through  to  the  foot  of  the  great  stair- 
case, he  saw  on  each  landing  that  was  in  sight  another 
sentry,  and,  at  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  overhead  gallery, 
against  which  hung  a  heavy  velvet  curtain,  stood  the  last, 
a  stern  figure  to  keep  guard  on  the  rooms  of  a  Queen, 
with  his  body-armour  complete,  a  steel  hat  on  his  head 
and  a  pike  in  his  hand. 

It  was  to  this  door  that  Sir  Amyas  went,  acknowledging 
with  a  lift  of  the  finger  the  salute  of  his  men.  (It  was 
plain  that  this  place  was  under  strict  military  discipline.) 
With  the  two,  the  real  and  the  false  physician  following 
him,  he  pulled  aside  the  curtain  and  rapped  imperiously  on 
the  door.  It  was  opened  after  a  moment's  delay  by  a 
frightened-faced  woman. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  307 

"Her  Grace?"  demanded  the  officer  sharply.  "Is  she 
still  abed  ?  " 

"Her  Grace  is  risen,  sir/'  said  the  woman  tremulously; 
"  she  is  in  the  inner  room." 

Sir  Amyas  strode  straight  on,  pulled  aside  a  second  cur- 
tain hanging  over  the  further  door,  rapped  upon  that,  too, 
and  without  even  waiting  for  an  answer  this  time,  beyond 
the  shrill  barking  of  dogs  within,  opened  it  and  passed  in. 
Mr.  Bourgoign  followed;  and  Robin  came  last.  The  door 
closed  softly  behind  him. 

Ill 

The  room  was  furnished  with  more  decency  than  any  he 
had  seen  in  this  harsh  house;  for,  although  at  the  time  he 
thought  that  he  had  no  eyes  for  anything  but  one  figure 
which  it  contained,  he  found  himself  afterwards  able  to 
give  a  very  tolerable  account  of  its  general  appearance. 
The  walls  were  hung  throughout  with  a  dark-blue  velvet 
hanging,  stamped  with  silver  fleur-de-lys.  There  were 
tapestries  on  the  floor,  between  which  gleamed  the  polished 
oak  boards,  perfectly  kept,  by  the  labours  (no  doubt)  of 
her  Grace's  two  women  (since  such  things  would  be  mere 
"  fiddle-faddle  "  to  the  honest  soldier)  ;  a  graceful  French 
table  ran  down  the  centre  of  the  room,  very  delicately 
carved,  and  beneath  it  two  baskets  from  which  looked  out 
the  indignant  heads  of  a  couple  of  little  spaniels;  upon 
it,  at  the  nearer  end,  were  three  or  four  cages  of  turtle- 
doves, melancholy-looking  in  this  half-lit  room;  old,  sun- 
bleached  curtains  of  the  same  material  as  that  which  hung 
on  the  walls,  shrouded  the  two  windows  on  the  right,  let- 
ting but  a  half  light  into  the  room:  there  was  a  further 
door,  also  curtained,  diagonally  opposite  that  by  which 
the  party  had  entered;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  same  wall 
a  tall  blue  canopy,  fringed  with  silver,  rose  to  the  ceiling 


308  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Beneath  it,  on  a  dais  of  a  single  step,  stood  a  velvet  chair, 
with  gilded  arms,  and  worked  with  the  royal  shield  in  the 
embroidery  of  the  back — with  a  crowned  lion  sejant,  guar- 
dant,  for  the  crest  above  the  crown.  Half  a  dozen  more 
chairs  were  ranged  about  the  table;  and,  on  a  couch,  with 
her  feet  swathed  in  draperies,  with  a  woman  standing  over 
her  behind,  as  if  she  had  just  risen  up  from  speaking  in 
her  ear,  lay  the  Queen  of  the  Scots.  A  tall  silver  and 
ebony  crucifix,  with  a  couple  of  velvet-bound,  silver-clasped 
little  books,  stood  on  the  table  within  reach  of  her  hand, 
and  a  folded  handkerchief  beside  them. 

Mary  was  past  her  prime  long  ago;  she  was  worn  with 
sorrow  and  slanders  and  miseries;  yet  she  appeared  to  the 
priest's  eyes,  even  then,  like  a  figure  of  a  dream.  It  was 
partly,  no  doubt,  the  faintness  of  the  light  that  came  in 
through  the  half-shrouded  windows  that  obliterated  the 
lines  and  fallen  patches  that  her  face  was  beginning  to  bear ; 
and  she  lay,  too,  with  her  back  even  to  such  light  as  there 
was.  Yet  for  all  that,  and  even  if  he  had  not  known  who 
she  was,  Robin  could  not  have  taken  his  eyes  from  her 
face.  She  lay  there  like  a  fallen  flower,  pale  as  a  lily, 
beaten  down  at  last  by  the  waves  and  storms  that  had  gone 
over  her;  and  she  was  more  beautiful  in  her  downfall  and 
disgrace,  a  thousand  times,  than  when  she  had  come  first  to 
Holyrood,  or  danced  in  the  Courts  of  France. 

Now  it  is  not  in  the  features  one  by  one  that  beauty  lies 
but  rather  in  the  coincidence  of  them  all.  Her  face  was 
almost  waxen  now,  blue  shadowed  beneath  the  two  waves 
of  pale  hair;  she  had  a  small  mouth,  a  delicate  nose,  and 
large,  searching  hazel  eyes.  Her  head-dress  was  of  white, 
with  silver  pins  in  it;  a  light  white  shawl  was  clasped  cross- 
wise over  her  shoulders ;  and  she  wore  a  loose  brocaded 
dressing-gown  beneath  it.  Her  hands,  clasped  as  if  in 
prayer,  emerged  out  of  deep  lace-fringed  sleeves,  and  were 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  309 

covered  with  rings.  But  it  was  the  air  of  almost  super- 
human delicacy  that  breathed  from  her  most  forcibly;  and, 
when  she  spoke,  a  ring  of  assured  decision  revealed  her 
quiet  consciousness  of  royalty.  It  was  an  extraordinary 
mingling  of  fragility  and  power,  of  which  this  feminine  and 
royal  room  was  the  proper  frame. 

Sir  Amyas  knelt  perfunctorily,  as  if  impatient  of  it;  and 
rose  up  again  at  once  without  waiting  for  the  signal.  Mary 
lifted  her  fingers  a  little  as  a  sign  to  the  other  two. 

"  I  have  brought  the  French  doctor,  madam,"  said  the 
soldier  abruptly.  "  But  he  must  see  your  Grace  in  my 
presence." 

"  Then  you  might  as  well  have  spared  him,  and  yourself, 
the  pains,  sir,"  came  the  quiet,  dignified  voice.  "  I  do  not 
choose  to  be  examined  in  your  presence." 

Robin  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face ;  but  although  he  thought 
he  caught  an  under  air  of  intense  desire  towards  him  and 
That  which  he  bore,  there  was  no  faltering  in  the  tone  of 
her  voice.  It  was,  as  some  man  said,  as  "  soft  as  running 
water  heard  by  night." 

"  This  is  absurd,  madam.  I  am  responsible  for  your 
Grace's  security  and  good  health.  But  there  are 
lengths " 

"  You  have  spoken  the  very  word,"  said  the  Queen. 
"  There  are  lengths  to  which  none  of  us  should  go,  even  to 
preserve  our  health." 

"  I  tell  you,  madam " 

"  There  is  no  more  to  be  said,  sir,"  said  the  Queen,  closing 
her  eyes  again. 

"  But  what  do  I  know  of  this  fellow  ?  How  can  I  tell  he 
is  what  he  professes  to  be?  "  barked  Sir  Amyas. 

"  Then  you  should  never  have  admitted  him  at  all,"  said 
the  Queen,  opening  her  eyes  again.  "  And  I  will  do  the 
best  that  I  can " 


310  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"But,  madam,  your  health  is  my  care;  and  Mr.  Bour- 
goign  here  tells  me " 

"  The  subject  does  not  interest  me,"  murmured  the 
Queen,  apparently  half  asleep. 

"  But  I  will  retire  to  the  corner  and  turn  my  back,  if  that 
is  necessary,"  growled  the  soldier. 

There  was  no  answer.  She  lay  with  closed  eyes,  and 
her  woman  began  again  to  fan  her  gently. 

Robin  began  to  understand  the  situation  a  little  better. 
It  was  plain  that  Sir  Amyas  was  a  great  deal  more  anxious 
for  the  Queen's  health  than  he  pretended  to  be,  or  he  would 
never  have  tolerated  such  objections.  The  Queen,  too, 
must  know  of  this,  or  she  would  not  have  ventured,  with 
so  much  at  stake,  to  treat  him  with  such  maddening  re- 
buffs. There  had  been  rumours  (verified  later)  that  Eliza- 
beth had  actually  caused  it  to  be  suggested  to  Sir  Amyas 
that  he  should  poison  his  prisoner  decently  and  privately, 
and  thereby  save  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  scandal;  and 
that  Sir  Amyas  had  refused  with  indignation.  Perhaps, 
if  all  this  were  true,  thought  Robin,  the  officer  was  espe- 
cially careful  on  this  very  account  that  the  Queen's  health 
should  be  above  suspicion.  He  remembered  that  Sir  Amyas 
had  referred  just  now  to  a  suspicion  of  poison.  .  .  .  He 
determined  on  the  bold  line. 

"  Her  Grace  has  spoken,  sir,"  he  said  modestly.  "  And 
I  think  I  should  have  a  word  to  say.  It  is  plain  to  me, 
by  looking  at  her  Grace,  that  her  health  is  very  far  from 
what  it  should  be — "  (he  paused  significantly) — "  I  should 
have  to  make  a  thorough  examination,  if  I  prescribed  at 
all;  and,  even  should  her  Grace  consent  to  this  being  done 
publicly,  for  my  part  I  would  not  consent.  I  should  be 
happy  to  have  her  women  here,  but " 

Sir  Amyas  turned  on  him  wrathfully. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  311 

"  Why,  sir,  you  said  downstairs — — " 

"  I  had  not  then  seen  her  Grace.     But  there  is  no  more 

to  be  said "     He  kneeled  again  as  if  to  take  his  leave, 

stood  up,  and  began  to  retire  to  the  door.     Mr.  Bourgoign 
stood  helpless. 

Then  Sir  Amyas  yielded. 

"  You  shall  have  fifteen  minutes,  sir.  No  more,"  he 
cried  harshly.  "  And  I  shall  remain  in  the  next  room." 

He  made  a  perfunctory  salute  and  strode  out. 

The  Queen  opened  her  eyes,  waited  for  one  tense  instant 
till  the  door  closed;  then  she  slipped  swiftly  off  the  couch. 

"  The  door !  "  she  whispered. 

The  woman  was  across  the  room  in  an  instant,  on  tip- 
toe, and  drew  the  single  slender  bolt.  The  Queen  made  a 
sharp  gesture;  the  woman  fled  back  again  on  one  side,  and 
out  through  the  further  door,  and  the  old  man  hobbled  after 
her.  It  was  as  if  every  detail  had  been  rehearsed.  The 
door  closed  noiselessly. 

Then  the  Queen  rose  up,  as  Robin,  understanding,  began 
to  fumble  with  his  breast.  And,  as  he  drew  out  the  pyx, 
and  placed  it  on  the  handkerchief  (in  reality  a  corporal), 
apparently  so  carelessly  laid  by  the  crucifix,  Mary  sank 
down  in  adoration  of  her  Lord. 

"  Now,  mon  pere,"  she  whispered,  still  kneeling,  but 
lifting  her  star-bright  eyes.  And  the  priest  went  across 
to  the  couch  where  the  Queen  had  lain,  and  sat  down  on  it. 

"  In  nomine  Patris  et  Filii  et  Spiritus  Sancti — — "  began 
Mary. 

IV 

When  the  confession  was  finished,  Robin  went  across, 
at  the  Queen's  order,  and  tapped  with  his  finger-nail  upon 
the  door,  while  she  herself  remained  on  her  knees.  The 
door  opened  instantly,  and  the  two  came  in.  the  woman 


312  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

first,  bearing  two  lighted  tapers.  She  set  these  down  one 
on  either  side  of  the  crucifix,  and  herself  knelt  with  the  old 
physician. 

.  .  .  Then  Robin  gave  holy  communion  to  the  Queen  of 
the  Scots.  .  .  . 


She  was  back  again  on  her  couch  now,  once  more  as 
drowsy-looking  as  ever.  The  candlesticks  were  gone  again ; 
the  handkerchief  still  in  its  place,  and  the  woman  back 
again  behind  the  couch.  The  two  men  kneeled  close  beside 
her,  near  enough  to  hear  every  whisper. 

"  Listen,  gentlemen,"  she  said  softly,  "  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  you  have  done  for  my  soul  to-day — both  of  you,  since 
I  could  never  have  had  the  priest  without  my  friend.  .  .  . 
I  cannot  reward  you,  but  our  Lord  will  do  so  abundantly. 
.  .  .  Listen,  I  know  that  I  am  going  to  my  death,  and  I 
thank  God  that  I  have  made  my  peace  with  Him.  I  do  not 
know  if  they  will  allow  me  to  see  a  priest  again.  But  I 
wish  to  say  this  to  both  of  you — as  I  said  just  now  in  my 
confession,  to  you,  mon  pere — that  I  am  wholly  and  utterly 
guiltless  of  the  plot  laid  to  my  charge;  that  I  had  neither 
part  nor  wish  nor  consent  in  it.  I  desired  only  to  escape 
from  my  captivity.  ...  I  would  have  made  war,  if  I  could, 
yes,  but  as  for  accomplishing  or  assisting  in  her  Grace's 
death,  the  thought  was  never  near  me.  Those  whom  I 
thought  my  friends  have  entrapped  me,  and  have  given 
colour  to  the  tale.  I  pray  our  Saviour  to  forgive  them  as 
I  do;  and  with  that  Saviour  now  in  my  breast  I  tell  you — 
and  you  may  tell  all  the  world  if  you  will — that  I  am 
guiltless  of  what  they  impute  to  me.  I  shall  die  for  my 
Religion,  and  nothing  but  that.  And  I  thank  you  again, 
mon  pere,  et  nous,  mon  ami,  que  vous  avez  .  .  ." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  313 

Her  voice  died  away  in  inaudible  French,  and  her  eyes 
closed. 

Robin's  eyes  were  raining  tears,  but  he  leaned  forward 
and  kissed  her  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  couch.  He 
felt  himself  touched  on  the  shoulder,  and  he  stood  up.  The 
old  man's  eyes,  too,  were  brimming  with  tears. 

"  I  must  let  Sir  Amyas  in,"  he  whispered.  "  You  must 
be  ready." 

"  What  shall  I  say?  " 

"  Say  that  you  will  prescribe  privately,  to  me:  and  that 
her  Grace's  health  is  indeed  delicate,  but  not  gravely  im- 
paired. .  .  .  You  understand  ?  " 

Robin  nodded,  passing  his  sleeve  over  his  eyes.  The 
woman  touched  the  Queen's  shoulder  to  rouse  her,  and  Mr. 
Bourgoign  opened  the  door. 

VI 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bourgoign,  as  the  two  passed 
out  from  the  house  half  an  hour  later,  "  I  have  one  more 
word  to  say  to  you.  Listen  carefully,  if  you  please,  for 
there  is  not  much  time." 

He  glanced  behind  him,  but  the  tall  figure  was  gone  from 
the  door;  there  remained  only  the  two  pikemen  that  kept 
ward  over  the  great  house  on  the  steps. 

"  Come  this  way,"  said  the  physician,  and  led  the  priest 
through  into  the  little  walled  garden  on  the  south.  "  He 
will  think  we  are  finishing  our  consultation." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  said  presently,  "  all  that  I  think 
of  your  courage  and  your  wit.  You  made  a  told  stroke 
when  you  told  him  you  would  begone  again,  unless  you 
could  see  her  Grace  alone,  and  again  when  you  said  you 


314  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

had  come  to  Chartley  because  she  was  here.  And  you 
may  go  again  now,  knowing  you  have  comforted  a  woman 
in  her  greatest  need.  They  sent  her  chaplain  from  her 
when  she  left  here  for  Tixall  in  July,  and  she  has  not  had 
him  again  yet.  She  is  watched  at  every  point.  They 
have  taken  all  her  papers  from  her,  and  have  seduced  M. 
Nau,  I  fear.  Did  you  hear  anything  of  him  in  town  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  priest.     "  I  know  nothing  of  him." 

"  He  is  a  Frenchman,  and  hath  been  with  her  Grace 
more  than  ten  years.  He  hath  written  her  letters  for  her, 
and  been  privy  to  all  her  counsels.  And  I  fear  he  hath 
been  seduced  from  her  at  last.  It  was  said  that  Mr.  Wal- 
singham  was  to  take  him  into  his  house.  .  .  .  Well,  but  we 
have  not  time  for  this.  What  I  have  to  ask  you  is  whether 
you  could  come  again  to  us  ?  " 

He  peered  at  the  priest  almost  timorously.  Robin  was 
startled. 

"  Come  again?  "  he  said.     "  Why " 

"  You  see  you  have  already  won  to  her  presence,  and 
Sir  Amyas  is  committed  to  it  that  you  are  a  safe  man.  I 
shall  tell  her  Grace,  too,  that  she  must  eat  and  drink  well, 
and  get  better,  if  she  would  see  you  again,  for  that  will 
establish  you  in  Sir  Amyas'  eyes." 

"  But  will  she  not  have  a  priest?  " 

"  I  know  nothing,  Mr.  Alban.  They  even  shut  me  up 
here  when  they  took  her  to  Tixall;  and  even  now  none  but 
myself  and  her  two  women  have  access  to  her.  I  do  not 
know  even  if  her  Grace  will  be  left  here.  There  has  been 
talk  among  the  men  of  going  to  Fotheringay.  I  know  noth- 
ing, from  day  to  day.  It  is  a  ...  a  cauchemar.  But 
they  will  certainly  do  what  they  can  to  shake  her.  It 
grows  more  rigorous  every  day.  And  I  thought,  that  if 
you  would  tell  me  whether  a  message  could  reach  you,  and  if 
her  chaplain  is  not  allowed  to  see  her  again,  you  might  be 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  315 

able  to  come  again.  I  would  tell  Sir  Amyas  how  much 
good  you  had  done  to  her  last  time,  with  your  herbs;  and, 
it  might  be,  you  could  see  her  again  in  a  month  or  two  per- 
haps— or  later." 

Robin  was  silent. 

The  greatness  of  the  affair  terrified  him;  yet  its  melan- 
choly drew  him.  He  had  seen  her  on  whom  all  England 
bent  its  thoughts  at  this  time,  who  was  a  crowned  Queen, 
with  broad  lands  and  wealth,  who  called  Elizabeth  "  sis- 
ter " ;  yet  who  was  more  of  a  prisoner  than  any  in  the  Fleet 
or  Westminster  Gatehouse,  since  those  at  least  could  have 
their  friends  to  come  to  them.  Her  hidden  fires,  too,  had 
warmed  him — that  passion  for  God  that  had  burst  from 
her  when  her  gaoler  left  her,  and  she  had  flung  herself  on 
her  knees  before  her  hidden  Saviour.  It  may  be  he  had 
doubted  her  before  (he  did  not  know) ;  but  there  was  no 
more  doubt  in  him  after  her  protestation  of  her  innocence. 
He  began  to  see  now  that  she  stood  for  more  than  her  king- 
dom or  her  son  or  the  plots  attributed  to  her,  that  she  was 
more  than  a  mere  great  woman,  for  whose  sake  men  could 
both  live  and  die;  he  began  to  see  in  her  that  which  poor 
Anthony  had  seen — a  champion  for  the  Faith  of  them  all, 
an  incarnate  suffering  symbol,  in  flesh  and  blood,  of  that 
Religion  for  which  he,  too,  was  in  peril — that  Religion, 
which,  in  spite  of  all  clamour  to  the  contrary,  was  the  real 
storm-centre  of  England's  life. 

He  turned  then  to  the  old  man  with  a  suddenly  flushed 
face. 

"  A  message  will  always  reach  me  at  Mistress  Manners' 
house,  at  Booth's  Edge,  near  Hathersage,  in  Derbyshire. 
And  I  will  come  from  there,  or  from  the  world's  end,  to 
serve  her  Grace." 


CHAPTER  V 


**  FIRST  give  me  your  blessing,  Mr.  Alban,"  said  Marjorie, 
kneeling  down  before  him  in  the  hall  in  front  of  them  all. 
She  was  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  but  her  eyes  shone  like  stars. 

It  was  a  couple  of  months  after  his  leaving  Chartley  be- 
fore he  came  at  last  to  Booth's  Edge.  First  he  had  had  to 
bestow  Mr.  Arnold  in  Lancashire,  for  suspicion  was  abroad; 
and  it  was  a  letter  from  Marjorie  herself,  reaching  him  in 
Derby,  at  Mr.  Biddell's  house,  that  had  told  him  of  it,  and 
bidden  him  go  on  with  his  friend.  The  town  had  never 
been  the  same  since  Topcliffe's  visit;  and  now  that  Babing- 
ton  House  was  no  longer  in  safe  Catholic  hands,  a  great 
protection  was  gone.  He  had  better  go  on,  she  said,  as  if 
he  were  what  he  professed  to  be — a  gentleman  travelling 
with  his  servant.  A  rumour  had  come  to  her  ears  that 
the  talk  in  the  town  was  of  the  expected  arrival  of  a  new 
priest  to  take  Mr.  Garlick's  place  for  the  present,  and 
every  stranger  was  scrutinised.  So  he  had  taken  her  ad- 
vice; he  had  left  Derby  again  immediately,  and  had  slowly 
travelled  north;  then,  coming  round  about  from  the  north, 
after  leaving  his  friend,  saying  mass  here  and  there  where 
he  could,  crossing  into  Yorkshire  even  as  far  west  as  Wake- 
field,  he  had  come  at  last,  through  this  wet  November  day, 
along  the  Derwent  valley  and  up  to  Booth's  Edge,  where 
he  arrived  after  sunset,  to  find  the  hall  filled  with  folks 
to  greet  him. 

He  was  smiling  himself,  though  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  by  the  time  that  he  had  done  giving  his  blessings. 

Hi 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  317 

Mr.  John  FitzHerbert  was  come  up  from  Padley,  where  he 
lived  now  for  short  times  together,  greyer  than  ever,  but 
with  the  same  resolute  face.  Mistress  Alice  Babington  was 
there,  still  serene  looking,  but  with  a  new  sorrow  in  her  eyes ; 
and,  clinging  to  her,  a  thin,  pale  girl  all  in  black,  who  only 
two  months  before  had  lost  both  daughter  and  husband ;  for 
the  child  had  died  scarcely  a  week  or  two  before  her 
father,  Anthony  Babington,  had  died  miserably  on  the  gal- 
lows near  St.  Giles'  Fields,  where  he  had  so  often  met  his 
friends  after  dark.  It  was  a  ghastly  tale,  told  in  fragments 
to  Robin  here  and  there  during  his  journey  ings  by  men  in 
taverns,  before  whom  he  must  keep  a  brave  face.  And  a 
few  farmers  were  there,  old  Mr.  Merton  among  them,  come 
in  to  welcome  the  son  of  the  Squire  of  Matstead,  returned 
under  a  feigned  name,  unknown  even  to  his  father,  and 
there,  too,  was  honest  Dick  Sampson,  come  up  from  Dethick 
to  see  his  old  master.  So  here,  in  the  hall  he  knew  so  well, 
himself  splashed  with  red  marl  from  ankle  to  shoulder,  still 
cloaked  and  spurred,  one  by  one  these  knelt  before  him, 
beginning  with  Marjorie  herself,  and  ending  with  the 
youngest  farm-boy,  who  breathed  heavily  as  he  knelt  down 
and  got  up  round-eyed  and  staring. 

"  And  his  Reverence  will  hear  confessions,"  proclaimed 
Marjorie  to  the  multitude,  "at  eight  o'clock  to-night;  and 
he  will  say  mass  and  give  holy  communion  at  six  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning." 

II 

He  had  to  hear  that  night,  after  supper,  and  before  he 
went  to  keep  his  engagement  in  the  chapel-room,  the  entire 
news  of  the  county;  and,  in  his  turn,  to  tell  his  own  ad- 
ventures. The  company  sat  together  before  the  great  hall- 
fire,  to  take  the  dessert,  since  there  would  have  been  no 
room  in  the  parlour  for  all  who  wished  to  hear.  (He  heard 


818  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  tale  of  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert,  traitor,  apostate  and 
sworn  man  of  her  Grace,  later,  when  he  had  come  down 
again  from  the  chapel-room,  and  the  servants  had  gone.) 
But  now  it  was  of  less  tragic  matters,  and  more  trium- 
phant, that  they  talked:  he  told  of  his  adventures  since  he 
had  landed  in  August;  of  his  riding  in  Lancashire  and 
Yorkshire,  and  of  the  fervour  that  he  met  with  there  (in 
one  place,  he  said,  he  had  reconciled  the  old  minister  of  the 
parish,  that  had  been  made  priest  under  Mary  thirty  years 
ago,  and  now  lay  dying)  ;  but  he  said  nothing  at  that  time 
of  what  he  had  seen  of  her  Grace  of  Scotland,  and  Chart- 
ley:  and  the  rest,  on  the  other  hand,  talked  of  what  had 
passed  in  Derby,  of  all  that  Mr.  Ludlam  and  Mr.  Garlick 
had  done;  of  the  arrest  and  banishment  of  the  latter,  and 
his  immediate  return;  of  the  hanging  of  Mr.  Francis  In- 
golby,  in  York,  which  had  made  a  great  stir  in  the  north 
that  summer,  since  he  was  the  son  of  Sir  Francis,  of  Ripley 
Castle;  as  well  as  of  the  deaths  of  many  others — Mr.  Fin- 
glow  in  August;  Mr.  Sandys,  in  the  same  month,  in 
Gloucester ;  and  of  Mr.  Lowe,  Mr.  Adams  and  Mr.  Dibdale, 
all  together  at  Tyburn,  the  news  of  which  had  but  just 
come  to  Derbyshire;  and  of  Mistress  Clitheroe,  that  had 
been  pressed  to  death  in  York,  for  the  very  crime  which 
Mistress  Marjorie  Manners  was  perpetrating  at  this  mo- 
ment, namely,  the  assistance  and  harbourage  of  priests;  or, 
rather,  for  refusing  to  plead  when  she  had  been  arrested 
for  that  crime,  lest  she  should  bring  them  into  trouble. 

And  then  at  last  they  began  to  speak  of  Mary  in  Fother- 
ingay  and  at  that  a  maid  came  in  to  say  that  it  was  eight 
o'clock,  and  would  his  Reverence  come  up,  as  a  few  had  to 
travel  home  that  night  and  to  come  again  next  day.  .  .  . 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  before  he  came  downstairs  again, 
to  find  the  gentlefolk  alone  in  the  little  parlour  that  opened 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  319 

from  the  hall.  It  gave  him  a  strange  thrill  of  pleasure  t° 
see  them  there  in  the  firelight;  the  four  of  them  only — 
Mr.  John  in  the  midst,  with  the  three  ladies ;  and  an  empty 
chair  waiting  for  the  priest.  He  would  hear  their  confes- 
sions presently  when  the  servants  were  gone  to  bed.  A 
great  mug  of  warm  ale  stood  by  his  place,  to  comfort  him 
after  his  long  ride  and  his  spiritual  labours. 

Mr.  John  told  him  first  the  news  of  his  own  son,  as  was 
his  duty  to  do;  and  he  told  it  without  bitterness,  in  a  level 
voice,  leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand. 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Thomas  still  passed  for  a  Catholic 
among  the  simpler  folk;  but  with  none  else.  All  the  great 
houses  round  about  had  the  truth  as  an  open  secret;  and 
their  doors  were  closed  to  him;  neither  had  any  priest 
been  near  him,  since  the  day  when  Mr.  Simpson  met  him 
alone  on  the  moors  and  spoke  to  him  of  his  soul.  Even 
then  Mr.  Thomas  had  blustered  and  declared  that  there 
was  no  truth  in  the  tale;  and  had  so  ridden  away  at  last, 
saying  that  such  pestering  was  enough  to  make  a  man  lose 
his  religion  altogether. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Mr.  John,  "  he  has  not  been  near  me, 
nor  I  near  him.  He  lives  at  Norbury  for  the  most  part. 
My  brother  is  attempting  to  set  aside  the  disposition  he 
had  made  in  his  favour;  but  they  say  that  it  will  be  made 
to  stand;  and  that  my  son  will  get  it  all  yet.  But  he  has 
not  troubled  us  at  Padley;  nor  will  he,  I  think." 

"  He  is  at  Norbury,  you  say,  sir?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  he  goes  here  and  there  continually.  He  has 
been  to  London  to  lay  informations,  I  have  no  doubt,  for  I 
know  that  he  hath  been  seen  there  in  Topcliffe's  company. 
...  It  seems  that  we  are  to  be  in  the  thick  of  the  conflict, 
We  have  had  above  a  dozen  priests  in  this  county  alone 
arraigned  for  treason,  and  the  most  of  them  executed." 

His  voice  had  gone  lower,  and  trembled  once  or  twice 


320  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

as  he  talked.  It  was  plain  that  he  could  not  bear  to  speak 
much  more  against  the  son  that  had  turned  against  him  and 
his  Faith,  for  the  sake  of  his  own  liberty  and  the  estates  he 
had  hoped  to  have.  Robin  made  haste  to  turn  the  talk. 

"  And  my  father,  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  John  looked  at  him  tenderly. 

"  You  must  ask  Mistress  Marjorie  of  him,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  not  seen  him  these  three  years." 

Robin  turned  to  the  girl. 

"  I  have  had  no  more  news  of  him  since  what  I  wrote  to 
you,"  she  said  quietly.  "  After  I  had  spoken  with  him, 
and  he  had  given  me  the  warning,  he  held  himself  aloof." 

"  Hath  he  been  at  any  of  the  trials  at  Derby?  " 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  He  was  at  the  trial  of  Mr.  Garlick,"  she  said ;  "  last 
year ;  and  was  one  of  those  who  spoke  for  his  banishment." 

And  then,  on  a  sudden,  Mistress  Alice  moved  in  her  cor- 
ner, where  she  sat  with  the  widow  of  her  brother. 

"  And  what  of  her  Grace?  "  she  said.  "  Is  it  true  what 
Dick  told  us  before  supper,  that  Parliament  hath  sentenced 
her?" 

Robin  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hear  so  much  gossip,"  he  said,  "  in  the  taverns,  that 
I  believe  nothing.  I  had  not  heard  that.  Tell  me  what 
it  was." 

He  was  in  a  torment  of  mind  as  to  what  he  should  say 
of  his  own  adventure  at  Chartley.  On  the  one  side  it  was 
plain  that  no  rumour  of  the  tale  must  get  abroad  or  he 
would  never  be  able  to  come  to  her  again;  on  the  other 
side,  no  word  had  come  from  Mr.  Bourgoign,  though  two 
months  had  passed.  He  knew,  indeed,  what  all  the  world 
knew  by  now,  that  a  trial  had  been  held  by  over  forty  lords 
in  Fotheringay  Castle,  wtither  the  Queen  had  been  moved 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  321 

at  the  end  of  September,  and  that  reports  had  been  sent 
of  it  to  London.  But  for  the  rest  he  knew  no  more  than 
the  others.  Tales  ran  about  the  country  on  every  side. 
One  man  would  say  that  he  had  it  from  London  direct  that 
Parliament  had  sentenced  her;  another  that  the  Queen  of 
England  had  given  her  consent  too;  a  third,  that  Parlia- 
ment had  not  dared  to  touch  the  matter  at  all;  a  fourth, 
that  Elizabeth  had  pardoned  her.  But,  for  Robin,  his 
hesitation  largely  lay  in  his  knowledge  that  it  was  on  the 
Babington  plot  that  all  would  turn,  and  that  this  would 
have  been  the  chief  charge  against  her;  and  here,  but  a 
yard  away  from  him,  in  the  gloom  of  the  chimney-breast 
sat  Anthony's  wife  and  sister.  How  could  he  say  that  this 
was  so,  and  yet  that  he  believed  her  wholly  innocent  of  a 
crime  which  he  detested?  He  had  dreaded  this  talk  the 
instant  that  he  had  seen  them  in  the  hall  and  heard  their 
names. 

But  Mistress  Alice  would  not  be  put  off.  She  repeated 
what  she  had  said.  Dick  had  come  up  from  Dethick  only 
that  afternoon,  and  was  now  gone  again,  so  that  he  could 
not  be  questioned;  but  he  had  told  his  mistress  plainly 
that  the  story  in  Derby,  brought  in  by  couriers,  was  that 
Parliament  had  consented  and  had  passed  sentence  on  her 
Grace;  that  her  Grace  herself  had  received  the  news  only 
the  day  before;  but  that  the  warrant  was  not  signed. 

"  And  on  what  charge  ?  "  asked  Robin  desperately. 

Mistress  Alice's  voice  rang  out  proudly;  but  he  saw  her 
press  the  girl  closer  as  she  spoke. 

"  That  she  was  privy  to  the  plot  which  my  .  .  .  my 
brother  had  a  hand  in." 

Then  Robin  drew  a  breath  and  decided. 

"  It  may  be  so,"  he  said.  "  But  I  do  not  believe  she  was 
privy  to  it.  I  spoke  with  her  Grace  at  Chartley " 

There  was  a  swift  movement  in  the  half  circle. 


322  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPEi 

"  I  spoke  with  her  Grace  at  Chartley,"  he  said.  "  I 
went  to  her  under  guise  of  a  herbalist:  I  heard  her  confes- 
sion and  gave  her  communion;  and  she  declared  publicly, 
before  two  witnesses,  after  she  had  had  communion,  that 
she  was  guiltless." 

Robin  was  no  story-teller;  but  for  half  an  hour  he  was 
forced  to  become  one,  until  his  hearers  were  satisfied.  Even 
here,  in  the  distant  hills,  Mary's  name  was  a  key  to  a 
treasure-house  of  mysteries.  It  was  through  this  country, 
too,  that  she  had  passed  again  and  again.  It  was  at  old 
Chatsworth  —  the  square  house  with  the  huge  Italian  and 
Dutch  gardens,  that  a  Cavendish  had  bought  thirty  years 
ago  from  the  Agards  —  that  she  had  passed  part  of  her 
captivity;  it  was  in  Derby  that  she  had  halted  for  a  night 
last  year  ;  it  was  near  Burton  that  she  had  slept  two  months 
ago  on  her  road  to  Fotheringay;  and  to  hear  now  of  her, 
from  one  who  had  spoken  to  her  that  very  autumn,  was  as 
a  revelation.  So  Robin  told  it  as  well  as  he  could. 

"  And  it  may  be,"  he  said,  "  that  I  shall  have  to  go  again. 
Mr.  Bourgoign  said  that  he  would  send  to  me  if  he  could. 
But  I  have  heard  no  word  from  him."  (He  glanced  round 
the  watching  faces.)  "  And  I  need  not  say  that  I  shall 
hear  no  word  at  all,  if  the  tale  I  have  told  you  leak  out." 

"  Perhaps  she  hath  a  chaplain  again,"  said  Mr.  John, 
after  pause. 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  the  priest.  "  If  she  had  none 
at  Chartley,  she  would  all  the  less  have  one  at  Fotherin- 


" And  it  may  be  you  will  be  sent  for  again?  "  asked 
Marjorie's  voice  gently  from  the  darkness. 
"  It  may  be  so,"  said  the  priest. 
"  The  letter  is  to  be  sent  here?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  told  Mr.  Bourgoign  so." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  323 

"  Does  any  other  know  you  are  here  ?  " 

"  No,  Mistress  Marjorie." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  It  is  growing  late/'  said  Mr.  John.  "  Will  your  Rev- 
erence go  upstairs  with  me;  and  these  ladies  will  come 
after,  I  think." 

Ill 

If  it  had  been  a  great  day  for  Robin  that  he  should  come 
back  to  his  own  country  after  six  years,  and  be  received  in 
this  house  of  strange  memories;  that  he  should  sit  upstairs 
as  a  priest,  and  hear  confessions  in  that  very  parlour  where 
nearly  seven  years  ago  he  had  sat  with  Marjorie  as  her 
accepted  lover — if  all  this  had  been  charged,  to  him,  with 
emotions  and  memories  which,  however  he  had  outgrown 
them,  yet  echoed  somewhere  wonderfully  in  his  mind;  it 
was  no  less  a  kind  of  climax  and  consummation  to  the  girl 
whose  house  this  was,  and  who  had  waited  so  long  to  receive 
back  a  lover  who  came  now  in  so  different  a  guise. 

But  it  must  be  made  plain  that  to  neither  of  them  was 
there  a  thought  or  a  memory  that  ought  not  to  be.  To 
those  who  hold  that  men  are  no  better,  except  for  their 
brains,  than  other  animals;  that  they  are  but,  after  all, 
bundles  of  sense  from  which  all  love  and  aspiration  take 
their  rise — to  such  the  thing  will  seem  simply  false.  They 
will  say  that  it  was  not  so;  that  all  that  strange  yearning 
that  Marjorie  had  to  see  the  man  back  again;  that  the 
excitement  that  beat  in  Robin's  heart  as  he  had  ridden  up 
the  well-remembered  slope,  all  in  the  dark,  and  had  seen 
the  lighted  windows  at  the  top;  that  these  were  but  the 
old  loves  in  the  disguise  of  piety.  But  to  those  who  under- 
stand what  priesthood  is,  for  him  that  receives  it,  and  for 
the  soul  that  reverences  it,  the  thing  is  a  truism.  For 
the  priest  was  one  who  loved  Christ  more  than  all  the 


324  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

world;   and   the   woman   one   who   loved   priesthood   more 
than  herself. 

Yet  her  memories  of  him  that  remained  in  her  had,  of 
course,  a  place  in  her  heart;  and,  though  she  knelt  before 
him  presently  in  the  little  parlour  where  once  he  had  kneeled 
before  her,  as  simply  as  a  child  before  her  father,  and  told 
her  sins,  and  received  Christ's  pardon,  and  went  away  to 
make  room  for  the  next — though  all  this  was  without  a 
reproach  in  her  eyes;  yet,  as  she  went  she  knew  that  she 
must  face  a  fresh  struggle,  and  a  temptation  that  would  not 
have  been  one-tenth  so  fierce  if  it  had  been  some  other 
priest  that  was  in  peril.  That  peril  was  Fotheringay, 
where  (as  she  knew  well  enough)  every  strange  face  would 
be  scrutinized  as  perhaps  nowhere  else  in  all  England ;  and 
that  temptation  lay  in  the  knowledge  that  when  that  letter 
should  come  (as  she  knew  in  her  heart  it  would  come),  it 
would  be  through  her  hands  that  it  would  pass — if  it  passed 
indeed. 

While  the  others  went  to  the  priest  one  by  one,  Mar j  one 
kneeled  in  her  room,  fighting  with  a  devil  that  was  not  yet 
come  to  her,  as  is  the  way  with  sensitive  consciences. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  suspense  at  Fotheringay  grew  deeper  with  every  day 
that  passed. 

Christmas  was  come  and  gone,  and  no  sign  was  made 
from  London,  so  far,  at  least,  as  the  little  town  was  con- 
cerned. There  came  almost  daily  from  the  castle  new  tales 
of  slights  put  upon  the  Queen,  and  now  and  again  of  new 
favours  granted  to  her.  Her  chaplain,  withdrawn  for  a 
while,  had  been  admitted  to  her  again  a  week  before  Christ- 
mas; a  crowd  had  collected  to  see  the  Popish  priest  ride  in, 
and  had  remarked  on  his  timorous  air;  and  about  the  same 
time  a  courier  had  been  watched  as  he  rode  off  to  London, 
bearing,  it  was  rumoured,  one  last  appeal  from  one  Queen 
to  the  other.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  known  that 
Mary  no  longer  had  her  dai's  in  her  chamber,  and  that  the 
billiard-table,  which  she  never  used,  had  been  taken  away 
again. 

But  all  this  had  happened  before  Christmas,  and  now  a 
month  had  gone  by,  and  although  this  or  that  tale  of  dis- 
courtesy from  gaoler  to  prisoner  leaked  out  through  the 
servants ;  though  it  was  known  that  the  crucifix  which  Mary 
had  hung  up  in  the  place  where  her  dais  had  stood  re- 
mained undisturbed — though  this  argument  or  the  other 
could  be  advanced  in  turn  by  men  sitting  over  their  wine  in 
the  taverns,  that  the  Queen's  cause  was  rising  or  falling, 
nothing  was  truly  known  the  one  way  or  the  other.  It  had 
been  proclaimed,  by  trumpet,  in  every  town  in  England, 
that  sentence  of  death  was  passed;  yet  this  was  two  or 
three  months  ago,  and  the  knowledge  that  the  warrant  had 

325 


S26  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

not  yet  been  signed  seemed  an  argument  to  some  that  now 
it  never  would  be. 

A  group  was  waiting  (as  a  group  usually  did  wait)  at 
the  village  entrance  to  the  new  bridge  lately  built  by  her 
Grace  of  England,  towards  sunset  on  an  evening  late  in 
January.  This  situation  commanded,  so  far  as  was  pos- 
sible, every  point  of  interest.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the 
London  road,  up  which  so  many  couriers  had  passed;  it 
was  over  this  bridge  that  her  Grace  of  Scotland  herself 
had  come  from  her  cross-country  journey  from  Chartley. 
On  the  left,  looking  northwards,  rose  the  great  old  colle- 
giate church,  with  its  graceful  lantern  tower,  above  the 
low  thatched  stone  houses  of  the  village;  on  the  right,  ad- 
joining the  village  beyond  the  big  inn,  rose  the  huge  keep 
of  the  castle  and  its  walls,  within  its  double  moats,  ranged 
in  form  of  a  fetterlock  of  which  the  river  itself  was  its 
straight  side.  Beyond,  the  low  rolling  hills  and  meadows 
met  the  chilly  January  sky. 

For  four  months  now  the  village  had  been  transformed 
into  a  kind  of  camp.  The  castle  itself  was  crammed  to 
bursting.  The  row  of  little  windows  beside  the  hall  on  the 
first  floor,  visible  only  from  the  road  that  led  past  the  inn 
parallel  to  the  river,  marked  the  lodgings  of  the  Queen, 
where,  with  the  hall  also  for  her  use,  she  lived  continually; 
the  rest  of  the  castle  was  full  of  men-at-arms,  officers,  great 
lords  who  came  and  went — these,  with  the  castellan's  rooms 
and  those  of  his  people,  Sir  Amyas'  lodgings,  and  the  space 
occupied  by  Mary's  own  servants — all  these  filled  the 
castle  entirely.  For  the  rest — the  garrison  not  on  duty,  the 
grooms,  the  couriers,  the  lesser  servants,  the  suites  of  the 
visitors,  and  even  many  of  the  visitors  themselves — these 
filled  the  two  inns  of  the  little  town  completely,  and  over' 
flowed  everywhere  into  the  houses  of  the  people.  It  was  » 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  327 

vision  of  a  garrison  in  war-time  that  the  countryfolk  gaped 
at  continually;  the  street  sparkled  all  day  with  liveries 
and  arms;  archers  went  to  and  fro;  the  trample  of  horses, 
the  sharp  military  orders  at  the  changings  of  guard  outside 
and  within  the  towered  gateway  that  commanded  the 
entrance  over  the  moats,  the  songs  of  men  over  their  wine 
in  the  tavern-parlours — these  things  had  become  matters  of 
common  observation,  and  fired  many  a  young  farm-man 
with  a  zeal  for  arms. 

The  Queen  herself  was  a  mystery. 

They  had  seen,  for  a  moment,  as  she  drove  in  after  dark 
last  September,  a  coach  (in  which,  it  was  said,  she  had  sat 
with  her  back  to  the  horses)  surrounded  by  guards;  patient 
watchers  had,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen  times  altogether  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  woman's  face,  at  a  window  that  was  supposed 
to  be  hers,  look  out  for  an  instant  over  the  wall  that  skirted 
the  moat.  But  that  was  all.  They  heard  the  trumpets' 
cry  within  the  castle;  and  even  learned  to  distinguish  some- 
thing of  what  each  signified — the  call  for  the  changing  of 
guards,  the  announcement  of  dinner  and  supper;  the 
warning  to  the  gatekeepers  that  persons  were  to  pass  out. 
But  of  her,  round  whom  all  this  centred,  of  the  prison-queen 
of  this  hive  of  angry  bees,  they  knew  less  than  of  her 
Grace  of  England  whom  once  they  had  seen  ride  in  through 
these  very  gates.  Tales,  of  course,  were  abundant — gossip 
from  servant  to  servant,  filtering  down  at  last,  distorted  or 
attenuated,  to  the  rustics  who  watched  and  exclaimed; 
but  there  was  not  a  soldier  who  kept  her,  not  a  cook  who 
served  her,  of  whom  they  did  not  know  more  than  of  herself. 
There  were  even  parties  in  the  village;  or,  rather,  there 
was  a  silent  group  who  did  not  join  in  the  universal  dis- 
approval, but  these  were  queer  and  fantastic  persons,  who 
still  held  to  the  old  ways  and  would  not  go  to  church  with 
the  rest. 


328  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

A  little  more  material  had  been  supplied  for  conversa- 
tion by  the  events  of  to-day.  It  had  positively  been  re- 
ported, by  a  fellow  who  had  been  to  see  about  a  room 
for  himself  in  the  village,  that  he  had  been  turned  out  of 
the  castle  to  make  space  for  her  Grace's  chaplain.  This 
was  puzzling.  Had  not  the  Popish  priest  already  been 
in  the  castle  five  or  six  weeks?  Then  why  should  he  now 
require  another  chamber? 

The  argument  waxed  hot  by  the  bridge.  One  said  that 
it  was  another  priest  that  was  come  in  disguise;  another, 
that  once  a  Popish  priest  got  a  foothold  in  a  place  he  was 
never  content  till  he  got  the  whole  for  himself;  a  third, 
that  the  fellow  had  simply  lied,  and  that  he  was  turned  out 
because  he  had  been  caught  by  Sir  Amyas  making  love 
to  one  of  the  maids.  Each  was  positive  of  his  own  thesis, 
and  argued  for  it  by  the  process  of  re-assertion  that  it  was 
so,  and  that  his  opponents  were  fools.  They  spat  into  the 
water;  one  got  out  a  tobacco  pipe  that  a  soldier  had  given 
him  and  made  a  great  show  of  filling  it,  though  he  had  no 
flint  to  light  it  with;  another  proclaimed  that  for  two  figs 
he  would  go  and  inquire  at  the  gateway  itself.  .  .  . 

To  this  barren  war  of  the  schools  came  a  fact  at  last,  and 
its  bearer  was  a  gorgeous  figure  of  a  man-at-arms  (who, 
later,  got  into  trouble  by  talking  too  much),  who  came 
swaggering  down  the  road  from  the  New  Inn,  blowing  smoke 
into  the  air,  with  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  his  breast-piece 
loose;  and  declared  in  that  strange  clipped  London-English 
of  his  that  he  had  been  on  guard  at  the  door  of  Sir  Amyas' 
room,  and  had  heard  him  tell  Melville  the  steward  and 
De  Preau  the  priest  that  they  must  no  longer  have  access 
to  her  Grace,  but  must  move  their  lodgings  elsewhere  within 
the  castle. 

This,  then,  had  to  be  discussed  once  more  from  the  begin- 
ning. One  said  that  this  was  an  evident  sign  that  the  end 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE.'  329 

was  to  come  and  that  Madam  was  to  die;  another  that,  on 
the  contrary,  it  was  plain  that  this  was  not  so,  but 
that  rather  she  was  to  be  compelled  by  greater  strictness 
to  acknowledge  her  guilt ;  a  third,  that  it  was  none  of  these 
things,  but  rather  that  Madam  was  turning  Protestant  at 
last  in  order  to  save  her  life,  and  had  devised  this  manner 
of  ridding  herself  of  the  priest.  And  the  soldier  damned 
them  all  round  as  block-fools,  who  knew  nothing  and  talked 
all  the  more  for  it. 

The  dark  was  beginning  to  fall  before  the  group  broke 
up,  and  none  of  them  took  much  notice  of  a  young  man 
on  a  fresh  horse,  who  rode  quietly  out  of  the  yard  of  the 
New  Inn  as  the  saunterers  came  up.  One  of  them,  three 
minutes  later,  however,  heard  suddenly  from  across  the 
bridge  the  sound  of  a  horse  breaking  into  a  gallop  and 
presently  dying  away  westwards  beyond  Perry  Lane. 

II 

Within  the  castle  that  evening  nothing  happened  that 
was  of  any  note  to  its  more  careless  occupants.  All  was  as 
usual. 

The  guard  at  the  towers  that  controlled  the  drawbridge 
across  the  outer  moat  was  changed  at  four  o'clock;  six  men 
came  out,  under  an  officer,  from  the  inner  court;  the  words 
were  exchanged,  and  the  six  that  went  off  duty  marched  in- 
to the  armoury  to  lay  by  their  pikes  and  presently  dispersed, 
four  to  their  rooms  in  the  east  side  of  the  quadrangle, 
two  to  their  quarters  in  the  village.  From  the  kitchen  came 
the  clash  of  dishes.  Sir  Amyas  came  out  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  keep,  where  he  had  been  conferring  with  Mr. 
FitzWilliam,  the  castellan,  and  passed  across  to  his  lodging 
on  the  south.  A  butcher  hurried  in,  under  escort  of  a 


330  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

couple  of  men  from  the  gate,  with  a  covered  basket  and 
disappeared  into  the  kitchen  entry.  All  these  things  were 
observed  idly  by  the  dozen  guards  who  stood  two  at  each 
of  the  five  doors  that  gave  upon  the  courtyard.  Presently, 
too,  hardly  ten  minutes  after  the  guard  was  changed,  three 
figures  came  out  at  the  staircase  foot  where  Sir  Amyas  had 
just  gone  in,  and  stood  there  apparently  talking  in  low 
voices.  Then  one  of  them,  Mr.  Melville,  the  Queen's  stew- 
ard, came  across  the  court  with  Mr.  Bourgoign  towards 
the  outer  entrance,  passed  under  it,  and  presently  Mr. 
Bourgoign  came  back  and  wheeled  sharply  in  to  the  right 
by  the  entry  that  led  up  to  the  Queen's  lodging.  Mean- 
while the  third  figure,  whom  one  of  the  men  had  thought 
to  be  M.  de  Preau,  had  gone  back  again  towards  Mr.  Mel- 
ville's rooms. 

That  was  all  that  was  to  be  seen,  until  half  an  hour 
later,  a  few  minutes  before  the  drawbridge  was  raised  for 
the  night,  the  steward  came  back,  crossed  the  court  once 
more  and  vanished  into  the  entry  opposite. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  young  man  had  ridden 
out  from  the  New  Inn. 

Then  the  sun  went  down;  the  flambeaux  were  lighted 
beneath  the  two  great  entrances — in  the  towered  archway 
across  the  moat,  and  the  smaller  vaulted  archway  within,, 
as  well  as  one  more  flambeau  stuck  into  the  iron  ring  by 
each  of  the  four  more  court-doors,  and  lights  began  to  burn 
in  the  windows  round  about.  The  man  at  Sir  Amyas' 
staircase  looked  across  the  court  and  idly  wondered  what 
was  passing  in  the  rooms  opposite  on  the  first  floor  where 
the  Queen  was  lodged.  He  had  heard  that  the  priest  had 
been  forced  to  change  his  room,  and  was  to  sleep  in  Mr. 
Melville's  for  the  present;  so  her  Grace  would  have  to  get 
on  without  him  as  well  as  she  could.  There  would  be  no 
Popish  mass  to-morrow,  then,  in  the  oratory  that  he  had 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  331 

heard  was  made  upstairs.  ...  He  marvelled  at  the  super- 
stition that  made  this  a  burden.  .  .  . 

At  a  quarter  before  six  a  trumpet  blew,  and  presently 
the  tall  windows  of  the  hall  across  the  court  from  him  began 
to  kindle.  That  was  for  her  Grace's  supper  to  be  served. 
At  five  minutes  to  six  another  trumpet  sounded,  and  M. 
Landet,  the  Queen's  butler,  hurried  out  with  his  white  rod 
to  take  his  place  for  the  entrance  of  the  dishes.  Finally, 
through  the  ground-floor  window  at  the  foot  of  the  Queen's 
stair,  the  man  caught  a  glimpse  of  moving  figures  passing 
towards  the  hall.  That  would  be  her  Grace  going  in  state 
to  her  supper  with  her  women ;  but,  for  the  first  time,  with- 
out either  priest  to  say  grace  or  steward  to  escort  her.  He 
saw,  too,  the  couple  of  guards  under  the  inner  archway 
come  to  the  salute  as  the  little  procession  came  for  an  in- 
stant within  their  view;  and  Mr.  Newrins,  the  butler  of 
the  castle,  stop  suddenly  and  pull  off  his  cap  as  he  was 
hurrying  in  to  be  in  time  for  the  supper  of  the  gentlemen 
that  was  served  in  the  keep  half  an  hour  after  the  Queen's. 

Meanwhile,  ten  miles  away,  along  the  Uppingham  and 
Leicester  track,  rode  a  young  man  through  the  dark. 


Ill 

Sunday,  too,  passed  as  usual. 

At  half-past  eight  the  bells  of  the  church  pealed  out  for 
the  morning  service,  and  the  village  street  was  thronged 
with  worshippers  and  a  few  soldiers.  At  nine  o'clock  they 
ceased,  and  the  street  was  empty.  At  eleven  o'clock  the 
trumpets  sounded  to  announce  change  of  guard,  and  to  tell 
the  kitchen  folk  that  dishing-time  was  come.  Half  an  hour 
later  once  more  the  little  procession  glinted  a  moment 
through  the  ground-floor  window  of  the  Queen's  stair  as 


332  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

her  Grace  went  to  dinner.  (She  was  not  very  well,  the 
cooks  had  reported,  and  had  eaten  but  little  last  night.) 
At  twelve  o'clock  she  came  out  again  and  went  upstairs, 
and  at  the  same  time,  in  Leicester,  a  young  man,  splashed 
from  head  to  foot,  slipped  off  a  draggled  and  exhausted 
horse  and  went  into  an  inn,  ordering  a  fresh  horse  to  be 
ready  for  him  at  three  o'clock. 

And  so  once  more  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  little 
rituals  were  performed,  and  the  guards  were  changed,  and 
M.  Landet,  for  the  last  time  in  his  life  (though  he  did  not 
know  it),  came  out  from  the  kitchen  with  his  white  rod 
to  bear  it  before  the  dishes  of  a  Queen;  and  Sir  Amyas 
walked  in  from  the  orchard  and  was  saluted,  and  Mr. 
FitzWilliam  went  his  rounds,  and  the  drawbridge  was 
raised.  And,  at  the  time  that  the  drawbridge  was  raised, 
a  young  man  on  a  horse  was  wondering  when  he  should 
see  the  lights  of  Burton.  .  .  . 

IV 

The  first  that  Mistress  Manners  knew  of  his  coming  in 
the  early  hours  of  Monday  morning,  was  when  she  was 
awakened  by  Janet  in  the  pitch  darkness  shaking  her 
shoulder. 

"  It  is  a  young  man,"  she  said,  "  on  foot.  His  horse 
fell  five  miles  off.  He  is  come  with  a  letter  from  Derby." 

Sleep  fell  from  Marjorie  like  a  cloak.  This  kind  of 
thing  had  happened  to  her  before.  Now  and  then  such  a 
letter  would  come  from  a  priest  who  lacked  money  or  de- 
sired a  guide  or  information.  She  sprang  out  of  bed  and 
began  to  put  on  her  outer  dress  and  her  hooded  cloak,  as 
the  night  was  cold. 

"  Bring  him  into  the  hall,"  she  said.  "  Get  beer  and 
«ome  food,  and  blow  the  fire  up." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  333 

Janet  vanished. 

When  the  mistress  came  down  five  minutes  later,  all  had 
been  done  as  she  had  ordered.  The  turf  and  wood  fire 
leaped  in  the  chimney;  a  young  man,  still  with  his  hat  on 
Jiis  head  and  drawn  down  a  little  over  his  face,  was  sitting 
over  the  hearth,  steaming  like  a  kettle,  eating  voraciously. 
Janet  was  waiting  discreetly  by  the  doors.  Marjorie 
nodded  to  her,  and  she  went  out;  she  had  learned  that 
her  mistress's  secrets  were  not  always  her  own  as  well. 

"  I  am  Mistress  Manners,"  she  said.  "  You  have  a  letter 
for  me  ?  " 

The  young  man  stood  up. 

"  I  know  you  well  enough,  mistress,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
John  Merton's  son." 

Marjorie's  heart  leaped  with  relief.  In  spite  of  her  de- 
termination that  this  must  be  a  letter  from  a  priest,  there 
had  still  thrust  itself  before  her  mind  the  possibility  that  it 
might  be  that  other  letter  whose  coming  she  had  feared.  She 
had  told  herself  fiercely  as  she  came  downstairs  just  now, 
that  it  could  not  be.  No  news  was  come  from  Fotheringay 
all  the  winter;  it  was  common  knowledge  that  her  Grace 
had  a  priest  of  her  own.  And  now  that  this  was  John  Mer- 
ton's son 

She  smiled. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  she  said.  "  I  should  have  known 
you,  too,  if  it  were  not  for  the  dark." 

"  Well,  mistress,"  he  said,  "  the  letter  was  to  be  delivered 
to  you,  Mr.  Melville  said;  but " 

"Who?" 

"  Mr.  Melville,  mistress:  her  Grace's  steward  at  Fother- 
ingay." 

He  talked  on  a  moment  or  two,  beginning  to  say  that 
Mr.  Melville  himself  had  come  out  to  the  inn;  that  he,  as 


334  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Melville's  own  servant,  had  been  lodging  there,  and  had 
been  bidden  to  hold  himself  in  readiness,  since  he  knew 
Derbyshire.  .  .  .  But  she  was  not  listening.  She  only 
knew  that  that  had  fallen  which  she  feared. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  she  said  again. 

He  sat  down,  excusing  himself,  and  fumbled  with  his 
boot;  and  by  the  time  that  he  held  it  out  to  her,  she  was 
in  the  thick  of  the  conflict.  She  knew  well  enough  what  it 
meant — that  there  was  no  peril  in  all  England  like  that  to 
which  this  letter  called  her  friend,  there,  waiting  for  him 
in  Fotheringay  where  every  strange  face  was  suspected, 
where  a  Popish  priest  was  as  a  sheep  in  a  den  of  wolves, 
where  there  would  be  no  mercy  at  all  if  he  were  discovered ; 
and  where,  if  he  were  to  be  of  use  at  all,  he  must  adven- 
ture himself  in  the  very  spot  where  he  would  be  most  sus- 
pected, on  a  task  that  would  be  thought  the  last  word  in 
treason  and  disobedience.  And,  worst  of  all,  this  priest 
had  lodged  in  the  tavern  where  the  conspirators  had  lodged ; 
he  had  talked  with  them  the  night  before  their  flight,  and 
now,  here  he  was,  striving  to  get  access  to  her  for  whom 
all  had  been  designed.  Was  there  a  soul  in  England  th°t 
could  doubt  his  complicity?  .  .  .  And  it  was  to  her  own 
house  here  in  Derbyshire  that  he  had  come  for  shelter;  it 
was  here  that  he  had  said  mass  yesterday;  and  it  must  be 
from  this  house  that  he  must  ride,  on  one  of  her  horses ;  and 
it  must  be  her  hand  that  gave  him  the  summons.  Last  of  all, 
it  was  she,  Marjorie  Manners,  that  had  sent  him  to  this 
life,  six  years  ago. 

Then,  as  she  took  the  letter,  the  shrewd  woman  in  her 
spoke.  It  was  irresistible,  and  she  seemed  to  listen  to  a 
voice  that  was  not  hers. 

"  Does  any  here  know  that  you  are  come  ?  " 

"  Noj  mistress." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  335 

"  If   I   bade  you,  and  said  that   I  had   reasons  for  it, 
you    would    ride    away    again    alone,   without    a    word    to 


any 


"  Why,  yes,  mistress !  " 

(Oh !  the  plan  was  irresistible  and  complete.  She  would 
send  this  messenger  away  again  on  one  of  her  own  horses 
as  far  as  Derby;  he  could  leave  the  horse  there,  and  she 
would  send  a  man  for  it  to-morrow.  He  would  go  back  to 
Fotheringay  and  would  wait,  he  and  those  that  had  sent 
him.  And  the  priest  they  expected  would  not  come.  He, 
too,  himself,  had  ceased  to  expect  any  word  from  Mr. 
Bourgoign;  he  had  said  a  month  ago  that  surely  none 
would  come  now.  He  had  been  away  from  Booth's  Edge, 
in  fact,  for  nearly  a  month,  and  had  scarcely  even  asked  on 
his  return  last  Saturday  to  Padley,  whether  any  message 
had  come.  Why,  it  was  complete — complete  and  irresist- 
ible! She  would  burn  the  letter  here  in  this  hall-fire  when 
the  man  was  gone  again;  arid  say  to  Janet  that  the  letter 
had  been  from  a  travelling  priest  that  was  in  trouble,  and 
that  she  had  sent  the  answer.  And  Robin  would  presently 
cease  to  look  for  news,  and  the  end  would  come,  and  there 
would  be  no  more  trouble.) 

"Do  you  know  what  is  in  the  letter?"  she  whispered 
sharply.  ("  Sit  down  again  and  go  on  eating.") 

He  obeyed  her. 

"  Yes,  mistress,"  he  said.  "  The  priest  was  taken  from 
her  on  Saturday.  Mr.  Bourgoign  had  arranged  all  in 
readiness  for  that." 

"  You  said  Mr.  Melville." 

"  Mr.  Melville  is  a  Protestant,  mistress ;  but  he  is  very 
well  devoted  to  her  Grace,  and  has  done  as  Mr.  Bourgoign 
wished." 

"Why  must  her  Grace  have  a  priest  at  once?  Surely 
for  a  few  days " 


336  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

He  glanced  up  at  her,  and  she,  conscious  of  her  ow» 
falseness,  thought  he  looked  astonished. 

"  I  mean  that  they  will  surely  give  her  her  priest  bad* 
again  presently;  and" — (her  voice  faltered) — "and  Mr. 
Alban  is  spent  with  his  travelling." 

"  They  mean  to  kill  her,  mistress.  There  is  no  doubt  oi 
it  amongst  those  of  us  that  are  Catholics.  And  it  is  that 
she  may  have  a  priest  before  she  dies,  that " 

He  paused. 

"  Yes?  "  she  said. 

"  Her  Grace  had  a  fit  of  crying,  it  is  said,  when  her 
priest  was  taken  from  her.  Mr.  Melville  was  crying  him- 
self, even  though " 

He  stopped,  himself  plainly  affected. 

Then,  in  a  great  surge,  her  own  heart  rose  up,  and  she 
understood  what  she  was  doing.  As  in  a  vision,  she  saw 
her  own  mother  crying  out  for  the  priest  that  never  came; 
and  she  understood  that  horror  of  darkness  that  falls  on 
one  who,  knowing  what  the  priest  can  do,  knowing  the 
infinite  consolations  which  Christ  gives,  is  deprived,  when 
physical  death  approaches,  of  that  tremendous  strength  and 
comfort.  Indeed,  she  recognised  to  the  full  that  when  a 
priest  cannot  be  had,  God  will  save  and  forgive  without 
him;  yet  what  would  be  the  heartlessness,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  guilt,  of  one  that  would  keep  him  away?  For  what, 
except  that  this  strength  and  comfort  might  be  at  the  serv- 
ice of  Christ's  flock,  had  her  own  life  been  spent?  It  was 
expressly  for  this  that  she  had  lived  on  in  England 
when  peace  and  the  cloister  might  be  hers  elsewhere;  and 
now  that  her  own  life  was  touched,  should  she  fail?  .  .  . 
The  blindness  passed  like  a  dream,  and  her  soul  rose  up 
again  on  a  wave  of  pain  and  exaltation.  .  .  . 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  337 

"  Wait/'  she  said.     "  I  will  go  and  awaken  him,  and  bid 
him  come  down." 


An  hour  later,  as  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  slit  the  sky 
to  the  eastwards  over  the  moors,  she  stood  with  Janet  and 
Mistress  Alice  and  Robin  by  the  hall  fire. 

She  had  said  not  a  word  to  any  of  the  struggle  she  had 
passed  through.  She  had  gone  upstairs  resolutely  and 
knocked  on  his  door  till  he  had  answered,  and  then  whis- 
pered, "  The  letter  is  come.  ...  I  will  have  food  ready  " ; 
slipping  the  letter  beneath  the  door. 

Then  she  had  sent  Janet  to  awaken  a  couple  of  men  that 
slept  over  the  stables,  and  bid  them  saddle  two  horses  at 
once;  and  herself  had  gone  to  the  buttery  to  make  ready  a 
rneal.  Then  Mistress  Alice  had  awakened  and  come  down- 
stairs, and  the  three  women  had  waited  on  the  priest,  as,  in 
boots  and  cloak,  he  had  taken  some  food. 

Then,  as  the  sound  of  the  horses'  feet  coming  round  from 
the  stables  at  the  back  had  reached  them,  she  had  deter- 
mined to  tell  Robin  before  he  went  of  how  she  had  played 
the  coward. 

She  went  out  with  him  to  the  entry  between  the  hall 
and  the  buttery,  holding  the  others  back  with  a  glance. 

"  I  near  destroyed  the  letter,"  she  said  simply,  with 
downcast  eyes,  "  and  sent  the  man  away  again.  I  was 
afraid  of  what  might  fall  at  Fotheringay.  .  .  .  May  Christ 
protect  you !  " 

She  said  no  more  than  that,  but  turned  and  called  the 
others  before  he  could  speak. 

As  he  gathered  up  the  reins  a  moment  later,  before  mount- 
ing, the  three  women  kneeled  down  in  the  lighted  entry 
and  the  two  farm-men  by  the  horses'  heads,  and  the  priest 
gave  them  his  blessing. 


CHAPTER  VII 


IT  was  not  until  after  dawn  on  Wednesday,  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  January,  as  the  bells  were  ringing  in  the  parish 
church  for  the  Conversion  of  St.  Paul,  that  the  two  draggled 
travellers  rode  in  over  the  bridge  of  Fotheringay,  seeing 
the  castle-keep  rise  grim  and  grey  out  of  the  river-mists 
on  the  right;  and,  passing  on,  dismounted  in  the  yard  of 
the  New  Inn.  They  had  had  one  or  two  small  misadven- 
tures by  the  way,  and  young  Merton,  through  sheer  sleepi- 
ness, had  so  reeled  in  his  saddle  on  the  afternoon  of  Mon- 
day, that  the  priest  had  insisted  that  they  should  both  have 
at  least  one  good  night's  rest.  But  they  had  ridden  all 
Tuesday  night  without  drawing  rein,  and  Robin,  going  up 
to  the  room  that  he  was  to  share  with  the  young  man,  fell 
upon  the  bed,  and  asleep,  all  in  one  act. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  trumpets  sounding  for  dinnei 
in  the  castle-yard,  and  sat  up  to  find  young  John  looking 
at  him.  The  news  that  he  brought  drove  the  last  shreds  of 
sleep  from  his  brain. 

"  I  have  seen  Mr.  Melville,  my  master,  sir.  He  bids 
me  say  it  is  useless  for  Mr.  Bourgoign,  or  anyone  else,  to  at- 
tempt anything  with  Sir  Amyas  for  the  present.  Mr.  Mel- 
ville hath  spoken  to  Sir  Amyas  as  to  his  separation  from 
her  Grace,  and  could  get  no  reason  for  it.  But  the  same 
day — it  was  of  Monday — her  Grace's  butler  was  forbidden 
any  more  to  carry  the  white  rod  before  her  dishes.  This 
is  as  much  as  to  signify,  Mr.  Melville  says,  that  her  Grace's 
royalty  shall  no  longer  protect  her.  It  is  their  intention, 

338 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  339 

he  says,  to  degrade  her  first,  before  they  execute  her.  And 
we  may  look  for  the  warrant  any  day,  my  master  says." 

The  young  man  stared  at  him  mournfully. 

"And  M.  de  Preau?" 

"  M.  de  Preau  goes  about  as  a  ghost.  He  will  come  and 
speak  with  your  Reverence  before  the  day  is  out.  Mean- 
while, Mr.  Melville  says  you  may  walk  abroad  freely.  Sir 
Amyas  never  goes  forth  of  the  castle  now,  and  none  will 
notice.  But  they  might  take  notice,  Mr.  Melville  says,  if 
you  were  to  lie  all  day  in  your  chamber." 

It  was  after  dinner,  as  Robin  rose  from  the  table  in  a 
parlour,  where  he  had  dined  with  two  or  three  lawyers  and 
an  officer  of  Mr.  FitzWilliam,  that  John  Merton  came  to 
him  and  told  him  that  a  gentleman  was  waiting.  He  went 
upstairs  and  found  the  priest,  a  little  timorous-looking  man, 
dressed  like  a  minister,  pacing  quickly  to  and  fro  in  the 
tiny  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  where  John  and  he  were 
to  sleep.  The  Frenchman  seized  his  two  hands  and  began 
to  pour  out  in  an  agitated  whisper  a  torrent  of  French  and 
English.  Robin  disengaged  himself. 

"  You  must  sit  down,  M.  de  Preau,"  he  said,  "  and  speak 
slowly,  or  I  shall  not  understand  one  word.  Tell  me  pre- 
cisely what  I  must  do.  I  am  here  to  obey  orders — no  more. 
I  have  no  design  in  my  head  at  all.  I  will  do  what  Mr. 
Bourgoign  and  yourself  decide." 

It  was  pathetic  to  watch  the  little  priest.  He  interrupted 
himself  by  a  thousand  apostrophes;  he  lifted  hands  and 
eyes  to  the  ceiling  repeatedly;  he  named  his  poor  mistress 
saint  and  martyr;  he  cried  out  against  the  barbarian  land 
in  which  he  found  himself,  and  the  bloodthirsty  tigers  with 
whom,  like  a  second  Daniel,  he  himself  had  to  consort;  he 
expatiated  on  the  horrible  risk  that  he  ran  in  venturing 


340  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

forth  from  the  castle  on  such  an  errand,  saying  that  Sir 
Amyas  would  wring  his  neck  like  a  hen's,  if  he  so  much 
as  suspected  the  nature  of  his  business.  He  denounced, 
with  feeble  venom,  the  wickedness  of  these  murderers,  who 
would  not  only  slay  his  mistress's  body,  but  her  soul  as 
well,  if  they  could,  by  depriving  her  of  a  priest.  Inci- 
dentally, however,  he  disclosed  that  at  present  there  was 
no  plan  at  all  for  Robin's  admission.  Mr.  Bourgoign 
had  sent  for  him,  hoping  that  he  might  be  able  to  re- 
introduce  him  once  more  on  the  same  pretext  as  at  Chartley ; 
but  the  incident  of  Monday,  when  the  white  rod  had  been 
forbidden,  and  the  conversation  of  Sir  Amyas  to  Mr.  Mel- 
ville had  made  it  evident  that  an  attempt  at  present  would 
be  worse  than  useless. 

"  You  must  yourself  choose !  "  he  cried,  with  an  abom- 
inable accent.  "  If  you  will  imperil  your  life  by  remaining, 
our  Lord  will  no  doubt  reward  you  in  eternity;  but,  if 
not,  and  you  flee,  not  a  man  will  blame  you — least  of  all 
myself,  who  would,  no  doubt,  flee  too,  if  I  but  dared." 

This  was  frank  and  humble,  at  any  rate.     Robin  smiled. 

"  I  will  remain,"  he  said. 

The  Frenchman  seized  his  hands  and  kissed  them. 

"  You  are  a  hero  and  a  martyr,  monsieur !  We  will 
perish  together,  therefore." 

II 

After  the  Frenchman's  departure,  and  an  hour's  sleep  in 
that  profundity  of  unconsciousness  that  follows  prolonged 
effort,  Robin  put  on  his  sword  and  hat  and  cloak,  having 
dressed  himself  with  care,  and  went  slowly  out  of  the  inn 
to  inspect  the  battlefield.  He  carried  himself  deliberately, 
with  a  kind  of  assured  insolence,  as  if  he  had  supreme 
rights  in  this  place,  and  were  one  of  that  crowd  of  persons 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  341 

— great  lords,  lawyers,  agents  of  the  court — to  whom  for 
the  last  few  months  Fotheringay  had  become  accustomed. 
He  turned  first  to  the  right  towards  the  castle,  and  pres- 
ently was  passing  down  its  long  length. 

It  looked,  indeed,  a  royal  prison.  A  low  wall  on  his 
right  protected  the  road  from  the  huge  outer  moat  that 
ran,  in  the  shape  of  a  fetterlock,  completely  round  all  the 
buildings ;  and  beyond  it,  springing  immediately  from  the 
edge  of  the  water,  rose  the  massive  outer  wall,  pierced  here 
and  there  with  windows.  He  thought  that  he  could  make 
out  the  tops  of  the  hall  windows  in  one  place,  beyond  the 
skirting  wall,  the  pinnacles  of  the  chapel  in  another,  and  a 
row  of  further  windows  that  might  be  lodgings  in  a  third; 
but  from  without  here  nothing  was  certain,  except  the 
gigantic  keep,  that  stood  high  to  the  west,  and  the  strong 
towers  that  guarded  the  drawbridge;  this,  as  he  went  by, 
was  lowered  to  its  place,  and  he  could  look  across  it  into 
the  archway,  where  four  men  stood  on  guard  with  their 
pikes.  The  inner  doors,  however,  were  closed  beyond  them, 
and  he  could  see  nothing  of  the  inner  moat  that  surrounded 
the  court,  nor  the  yard  itself.  Neither  did  he  think  it 
prudent  to  ask  any  questions,  though  he  looked  freely  about 
him;  since  the  part  he  must  play  for  the  present  plainly 
was  that  of  one  who  had  a  right  here  and  knew  what  he 
did. 

He  came  back  to  the  inn  an  hour  later,  after  a  walk 
through  the  village  and  round  the  locked  church:  this  was 
a  splendid  building,  with  flying  buttresses  and  a  high  tower, 
with  exterior  carvings  of  saints  and  evangelists  all  in  place. 
But  it  looked  desolate  to  him,  and  he  was  the  more  de- 
jected, as  he  seemed  no  nearer  to  the  Queen  than  before, 
and  with  little  chance  of  getting  there.  Meanwhile,  there 
was  but  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  that  the  hardest  of  all — 
to  wait.  Perhaps  in  a  few  days  he  might  get  speech  with 


342  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Mr.  Bourgoign;  yet  for  the  present  that,  too,  as  the  priest 
had  told  Him,  was  out  of  the  question. 


Ill 

Five  days  were  gone  by,  Sunday  had  come  and  gone, 
and  yet  there  had  been  no  news,  except  a  letter  conveyed 
to  him  by  Merton,  written  by  Mr.  Bourgoign  himself,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  had  news  that  Mr.  Beale,  the  Clerk  of  the 
Council,  was  to  arrive  some  time  that  week,  and  that  this 
presaged  the  approach  of  the  end.  He  would,  therefore, 
do  his  utmost  within  the  next  few  days  to  approach  Sir 
Amyas  and  ask  for  the  admission  of  the  young  herbalist 
who  had  done  her  Grace  so  much  good  at  Chartley.  He 
added  that  if  any  question  were  to  be  raised  as  to  why  he 
had  been  so  long  in  the  place,  and  why,  indeed,  he  had 
come  at  all,  he  was  to  answer  fearlessly  that  Mr.  Bour- 
goign had  sent  for  him. 

On  the  Sunday  night  Robin  could  not  sleep.  Little  by 
little  the  hideous  suspense  was  acting  upon  him,  and  the 
knowledge  that  not  a  hundred  yards  away  from  him  the 
wonderful  woman  whom  he  had  seen  at  Chartley,  the  loving 
and  humble  Catholic,  who  had  kneeled  so  ardently  before 
her  Lord,  the  Queen  who  had  received  from  him  the  sacra- 
ments for  which  she  thirsted — the  knowledge  that  she  was 
breaking  her  heart,  so  near,  for  the  consolation  which  a 
priest  only  could  give,  and  that  he,  a  priest,  was  free  to 
go  through  all  England,  except  through  that  towered  gate- 
way past  which  he  walked  every  day — this  increased  his 
misery  and  his  longing. 

The  very  day  he  had  been  through — the  Sunday  on  which 
he  could  neither  say  nor  even  hear  mass  (for,  because  of 
the  greatness  of  that  which  was  at  stake,  he  had  thought 
it  wiser  to  bring  with  him  nothing  that  could  arouse  SKS- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  34,3 

picion) — and  the  hearing  of  the  bells  from  the  church 
calling  to  Protestant  prayers,  and  the  sight  of  the  crowds 
going  and  returning — this  brought  him  lower  than  he  had 
been  since  his  first  coming  to  England.  He  lay  then  in 
the  darkness,  turning  from  side  to  side,  thinking  of  these 
things,  listening  to  the  breathing  of  the  young  man  who 
lay  on  blankets  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 

About  midnight  he  could  lie  there  no  longer.  He  got 
out  of  bed  noiselessly,  stepped  across  the  other,  went  to 
the  window-seat  and  sat  down  there,  staring  out,  with  eyes 
well  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  towards  the  vast  outline 
against  the  sky  which  he  knew  was  the  keep  of  the  castle. 
No  light  burned  there  to  relieve  its  brutality.  It  remained 
there,  implacable  as  English  justice,  immovable  as  the  heart 
of  Elizabeth  and  the  composure  of  the  gaoler  who  kept 
it.  ...  Then  he  drew  out  Mr.  Maine's  rosary  and  began 
to  recite  the  "  Sorrowful  Mysteries."  .  .  . 

He  supposed  afterwards  that  he  had  begun  to  doze; 
but  he  started,  wide-awake,  at  a  sudden  glare  of  light  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  a  beacon  had  flared  for  an  instant  somewhere 
within  the  castle  enclosure.  It  was  gone  again,  however; 
there  remained  the  steady  monstrous  mass  of  building  and 
the  heavy  sky.  Then,  as  he  watched,  it  came  again,  with- 
out warning  and  without  sound — that  same  brilliant  flare 
of  light,  against  which  the  towers  and  walls  stood  out  pitch- 
black.  A  third  time  it  came,  and  all  was  dark  once 
more. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  sat  over  his  ale  in  the  tavern  be- 
low, he  listened,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  engrossed,  it 
seemed,  in  a  little  book  he  was  reading,  to  the  excited  talk 
of  a  group  of  soldiers.  One  of  them,  he  said,  had  been 
on  guard  beneath  the  Queen's  windows  last  night,  and  be- 
tween midnight  and  one  o'clock  had  seen  three  times  a 


344  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

brilliant  light  explode  itself,  like  soundless  gunpowder,  im- 
mediately over  the  room  where  she  slept.  And  this  he  as- 
serted, over  and  over  again. 


IV 

On  the  following  Saturday  John  Merton  came  up  into 
the  room  where  the  priest  was  sleeping  after  dinner  and 
awakened  him. 

"  If  you  will  come  at  once  with  me,  sir,  you  can  have 
speech  with  Mr.  Bourgoign.  My  master  has  sent  me  to 
tell  you  so ;  Mr.  Bourgoign  has  leave  to  go  out." 

Robin  said  nothing.  It  was  the  kind  of  opportunity 
that  must  not  be  imperilled  by  a  single  word  that  might 
be  overheard.  He  threw  on  his  great  cloak,  buckled  his 
sword  on,  and  followed  with  every  nerve  awake.  They 
went  up  the  street  leading  towards  the  church,  and  turned 
down  a  little  passage-way  between  two  of  the  larger  houses ; 
the  young  man  pushed  on  a  door  in  the  wall;  and  Robin 
went  through,  to  find  himself  in  a  little  enclosed  garden 
with  Mr.  Bourgoign  gathering  herbs  from  the  border,  not 
a  yard  from  him.  The  physician  said  nothing;  he  glanced 
sharply  up  and  pointed  to  a  seat  set  under  the  shelter  of 
the  wall  that  hid  the  greater  part  of  the  garden  from  the 
house  to  which  it  belonged;  and  as  Robin  reached  it,  Mr. 
Bourgoign,  still  gathering  his  herbs,  began  to  speak  in  an 
undertone. 

"  Do  not  speak  except  very  softly,  if  you  must,"  he  said. 
"  The  Queen  is  sick  again ;  and  I  have  leave  to  gather  herbs 
for  her  in  two  or  three  gardens.  It  was  refused  to  me  at 
first  and  then  granted  afterwards.  From  that  I  look  for 
the  worst.  .  .  .  Beale  will  come  to-morrow,  I  hear.  .  .  . 
Paulet  refused  me  leave  the  first  time,  I  make  no  doubt, 
knowing  that  all  was  to  end  within  a  day  or  two:  then  he 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  345 

granted  it  me,  for  fear  I  should  suspect  his  reason.  (Can 
you  hear  me,  sir?)" 

Robin  nodded.     His  heart  thumped  within  him. 

"Well,  sir;  I  shall  tell  Sir  Amyas  to-morrow  that  my 
herbs  do  no  good — that  I  do  not  know  what  to  give  her 
Grace.  I  have  seen  her  Grace  continually,  but  with  a  man 
in  the  room  always.  .  .  .  Her  Grace  knows  that  you  are 
here,  and  bids  me  thank  you  with  all  her  heart.  ...  I 
shall  speak  to  Sir  Amyas,  and  shall  tell  him  that  you  are 
here :  and  that  I  sent  for  you,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask  leave 
for  you  until  now.  If  he  refuses  I  shall  know  that  all  is 
finished,  and  that  Beale  has  brought  the  warrant  with  him. 
.  .  .  If  he  consents  I  shall  think  that  it  is  put  off  for  a 
little.  .  .  ." 

He  was  very  near  to  Robin  now,  still,  with  a  critical  air 
pushing  the  herbs  this  way  and  that,  selecting  one  now 
and  again. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me,  sir?  Do  not  speak 
loud.  The  fellow  that  conducted  me  from  the  castle  is 
drinking  ale  in  the  house  behind.  He  did  not  know  of  this 
door  on  the  side.  .  .  .  Have  you  anything  to  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Robin. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Two  things.  The  first  is  that  I  think  one  of  the  fellows 
in  the  inn  is  doubtful  of  me.  Merton  tells  me  he  has  asked 
a  great  number  of  questions  about  me.  What  had  I  best 
do?" 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  He  is  a  servant  of  my  lord  Shrewsbury's  who  is  in  the 
neighbourhood." 

The  doctor  was  silent. 

"  Am  I  in  danger  ?  "  asked  the  priest  quietly.  "  Shall  I 
endanger  her  Grace?  " 


346  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  You  cannot  endanger  her  Grace.  She  is  near  her  end 
in  any  case.  But  for  yourself " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  endangering  yourself  every  instant  by  remain- 
ing/' said  the  doctor  dryly. 

"  The  second  matter "  began  Robin. 

"  But  what  of  yourself " 

"  Myself  must  be  endangered,"  said  Robin  softly.  "  The 
second  matter  is  whether  you  cannot  get  me  near  her  Grace 
in  the  event  of  her  execution.  I  could  at  least  give  her  ab- 
solution sub  conditioned' 

Mr.  Bourgoign  shot  a  glance  at  him  which  he  could  not 
interpret. 

"  Sir,"  he  said ;  "  God  will  reward  you.  ...  As  regards 
the  second  matter  it  will  be  exceedingly  difficult.  If  it  is  to 
be  in  the  open  court,  I  may  perhaps  contrive  it.  If  it  is 
to  be  in  the  hall,  none  but  known  persons  would  be  ad- 
mitted. .  .  .  Have  you  anything  more,  sir  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  had  best  be  gone  again  at  once.  .  .  .  Her 
Grace  prays  for  you.  .  .  .  She  had  a  fit  of  weeping  last 
night  to  know  that  a  priest  was  here  and  she  not  able  to 
have  him.  .  .  .  Do  you  pray  for  her.  .  .  ." 


Sunday  morning  dawned;  the  bells  pealed  out;  the 
crowds  went  by  the  church  and  came  back  to  dinner;  and 
yet  no  word  had  come  to  the  inn.  Robin  scarcely  stirred 
out  all  that  day  for  fear  a  summons  should  come  and  he 
miss  it.  He  feigned  a  little  illness  and  sat  wrapped  up 
in  the  corner  window  of  the  parlour  upstairs,  whence  he 
could  command  both  roads — that  which  led  to  the  Castle, 
and  that  which  led  to  the  bridge  over  which  Mr.  Beale 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  347 

must  come.  He  considered  it  prudent  also  to  do  this,  be- 
cause  of  the  fellow  of  whom  Merton  had  told  him — a  man 
that  looked  like  a  groom,  and  who  was  lent,  he  heard,  with 
one  or  two  others  by  his  master  to  do  service  at  the  Castle. 
Robin's  own  plan  had  been  distinct  ever  since  M.  de 
Preau  had  brought  him  the  first  message.  He  bore  himself, 
as  has  been  said,  assuredly  and  confidently;  and  if  he  were 
questioned  would  simply  have  said  that  he  had  business  con- 
nected with  the  Castle.  This,  asserted  in  a  proper  tone, 
would  probably  have  its  effect.  There  was  so  much  mys- 
tery, involving  such  highly-placed  personages  from  the 
Queen  of  England  downwards,  that  discretion  was  safer 
than  curiosity. 

It  was  growing  towards  dark  when  Robin,  after  long  and 
fruitless  staring  down  the  castle  road,  turned  himself  to 
the  other.  The  parlour  was  empty  at  this  hour  except  for 
himself. 

He  saw  the  group  gathering  as  usual  at  the  entrance  to 
the  bridge  to  watch  the  arrivals  from  London,  who,  if 
there  were  any,  generally  came  about  this  time. 

Then,  as  he  looked,  he  saw  two  horsemen  mount  the 
further  slope  of  the  bridge,  and  come  full  into  view. 

Now  there  was  nothing  whatever  about  these  two  persons, 
in  outward  appearance,  to  explain  the  strange  effect  they 
had  upon  the  priest.  They  could  not  possibly  be  the  party 
for  which  he  was  watching.  Mr.  Beale  would  certainly 
come  with  a  great  company.  They  were,  besides,  plainly 
no  more  than  serving-men :  one  wore  some  kind  of  a  livery ; 
the  other,  a  strongly-built  man  who  sat  his  horse  awk- 
wardly, was  in  new  clothes  that  did  not  fit  him.  They 
rode  ordinary  hackneys ;  and  each  had  luggage  strapped  be- 
hind his  saddle.  All  this  the  priest  saw  as  they  came  up 
the  narrow  street  and  halted  before  the  inn  door.  They 


348  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

might,  perhaps,  be  servants  of  Mr.  Beale;  yet  that  did  not 
seem  probable  as  there  was  no  sign  of  a  following  party. 
The  landlord  came  out  on  to  the  steps  beneath;  and  after 
a  word  or  two,  they  slipped  off  their  horses  wearily,  and 
led  them  round  into  the  court  of  the  inn. 

All  this  was  usual  enough;  the  priest  had  seen  such 
arrivals  a  dozen  times  at  this  very  door;  yet  he  felt  sick 
as  he  looked  at  them.  There  appeared  to  him  something 
terrible  and  sinister  about  them.  He  had  seen  the  face  of 
the  liveried  servant;  but  not  of  the  other:  this  one  had 
carried  his  head  low,  with  his  great  hat  drawn  down  on  his 
head.  The  priest  wondered,  too,  what  they  carried  in 
their  trunks. 

When  he  went  down  to  supper  in  the  great  room  of  the 
inn,  he  could  not  forbear  looking  round  for  them.  But 
only  one  was  to  be  seen — the  liveried  servant  who  had 
done  the  talking. 

Robin  turned  to  his  neighbour — a  lawyer  with  whom  he 
had  spoken  a  few  times. 

"  That  is  a  new  livery  to  me,"  he  said,  nodding  towards 
the  stranger. 

"That?"  said  the  lawyer.  "That?  Why,  that  is  the 
livery  of  Mr.  Walsingham.  I  have  seen  it  in  London." 

Towards  the  end  of  supper  a  stir  broke  out  among  the 
servants  who  sat  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room  near  the 
windows  that  looked  out  upon  the  streets.  Two  or  three 
sprung  up  from  the  tables  and  went  to  look  out. 

"What  is  that?  "  cried  the  lawyer. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Beale  going  past,  sir,"  answered  a  voice. 

Robin  lifted  his  eyes  with  an  effort  and  looked.  Even  as 
he  did  so  there  came  a  trampling  of  horses'  hoofs ;  and 
then,  in  the  light  that  streamed  from  the  windows,  there 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  349 

appeared  a  company  on  horseback.  They  were  too  far 
away  from  where  he  sat,  and  the  lights  were  too  confusing, 
for  him  to  see  more  than  the  general  crowd  that  went  by — 
perhaps  from  a  dozen  to  twenty  all  told.  But  by  them  ran 
the  heads  of  men  who  had  waited  at  the  bridge  to  see  them 
go  by;  and  a  murmuring  of  voices  came  even  through  the 
closed  windows.  It  was  plain  that  others  besides  those  who 
were  close  to  her  Grace,  saw  a  sinister  significance  in  Mr. 
Beale's  arrival. 


VI 

Robin  had  hardly  reached  his  room  after  supper  and  a 
little  dessert  in  the  parlour,  before  Merton  came  in.  He 
drew  his  hand  out  of  his  breast  as  he  entered,  and,  with  a 
strange  look,  gave  the  priest  a  folded  letter.  Robin  took 
it  without  a  word  and  read  it  through. 

After  a  pause  he  said  to  the  other: 

"  Who  were  those  two  men  that  came  before  supper  ? 
I  saw  them  ride  up." 

"  There  is  only  one,  sir.  He  is  one  of  Mr.  Walsing- 
ham's  men." 

"  There  were  two,"  said  the  priest. 

"  I  will  inquire,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  looking 
anxiously  from  the  priest's  face  to  the  note  and  back  again. 

Robin  noticed  it. 

"  It  is  bad  news,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I  must  say  no  more. 
Will  you  inquire  for  me;  and  come  and  tell  me  at 

once." 

When  the  young  man  had  gone  Robin  read  the  note  again 

before  destroying  it. 

"  I  spoke  to  Sir  A.  to-day.  He  will  have  none  of  it.  He 
seemed  highly  suspicious  when  I  spoke  to  him  of  you.  If 
you  value  your  safety  more  than  her  Grace's  possible  com- 


350  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

fort,  you  had  best  leave  at  once.  In  any  case,  use  great 
caution." 

Then,  in  a  swift,  hurried  hand  there  followed  a  post- 
script : 

"  Mr.  B.  is  just  now  arrived,  and  is  closeted  with  Sir  A. 
All  is  over,  I  think." 

Ten  minutes  later  Merton  came  back  and  found  the  priest 
still  in  the  same  attitude,  sitting  on  the  bed. 

*'  They  will  have  none  of  it,  sir,"  he  said.  "  They  say 
that  one  only  came,  in  advance  of  Mr.  Beale." 

He  came  a  little  closer,  and  Robin  could  see  that  he  was 
excited. 

"  But  you  are  right,  sir,  for  all  their  lies.  I  saw  supper 
plates  and  an  empty  flagon  come  down  from  the  stair  that 
leads  to  the  little  chamber  above  the  kitchen." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


OVERHEAD  lay  the  heavy  sky  of  night-clouds  like  a  curved 
sheet  of  dark  steel,  glimmering  far  away  to  the  left  with 
gashes  of  pale  light.  In  front  towered  the  twin  gateway, 
seeming  in  the  gloom  to  lean  forward  to  its  fall.  Lights 
shone  here  and  there  in  the  windows,  vanished  and  appeared 
again,  flashing  themselves  back  from  the  invisible  water 
beneath.  About,  behind  and  on  either  side,  there  swayed 
and  murmured  this  huge  crowd — invisible  in  the  darkness 
— peasants,  gentlemen,  clerks,  grooms — all  on  an  equality 
at  last,  awed  by  a  common  tragedy  into  silence,  except  for 
words  exchanged  here  and  there  in  an  undertone,  or 
whispered  and  left  unanswered,  or  sudden  murmured 
prayers  to  a  God  who  hid  Himself  indeed.  Now  and 
again,  from  beyond  the  veiling  walls  came  the  tramp  of 
men ;  once,  three  or  four  brisk  notes  blown  on  a  horn ;  once, 
the  sudden  rumble  of  a  drum;  and  once,  when  the  silence 
grew  profound,  three  or  four  blows  of  iron  on  wood.  But 
at  that  the  murmur  rose  into  a  groan  and  drowned  it 
again.  .  .  . 

So  the  minutes  passed.  .  .  .  Since  soon  after  midnight 
the  folks  had  been  gathering  here.  Many  had  not  slept 
all  night,  ever  since  the  report  had  run  like  fire  through 
the  little  town  last  evening,  that  the  sentence  had  been  de- 
livered to  the  prisoner.  From  that  time  onwards  the  road 
that  led  down  past  the  Castle  had  never  been  empty.  It 
was  now  moving  on  to  dawn,  the  late  dawn  of  February; 
and  every  instant  the  scene  grew  more  distinct.  It  was 

851 


352  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

possible  for  those  pushed  against  the  wall,  or  against  the 
chains  of  the  bridge  that  had  been  let  down  an  hour  ago, 
to  look  down  into  the  chilly  water  of  the  moat;  to  see  not 
the  silhouette  only  of  the  huge  fortress,  but  the  battle- 
ments of  the  wall,  and  now  and  again  a  steel  cap  and  a 
pike-point  pass  beyond  it  as  the  sentry  went  to  and  fro. 
Noises  within  the  Castle  grew  more  frequent.  The  voice 
of  an  officer  was  heard  half  a  dozen  times ;  the  rattle  of 
pike-butts,  the  clash  of  steel.  The  melancholy  bray  of 
the  horn-blower  ran  up  a  minor  scale  and  down  again;  the 
dub-dub  of  a  drum  rang  out,  and  was  thrown  back  in 
throbs  by  the  encircling  walls.  The  galloping  of  horses 
was  heard  three  or  four  times  as  a  late-comer  tore  up  the 
village  street  and  was  forced  to  halt  far  away  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd — some  country  squire,  maybe,  to  whom 
the  amazing  news  had  come  an  hour  ago.  Still  there  was 
no  movement  of  the  great  doors  across  the  bridge.  The 
men  on  guard  there  shifted  their  positions;  nodded  a  word 
or  two  across  to  one  another;  changed  their  pikes  from  one 
hand  to  the  other.  It  seemed  as  if  day  would  come  and 
find  the  affair  no  further  advanced.  .  .  . 

Then,  without  warning  (for  so  do  great  climaxes  always 
come),  the  doors  wheeled  back  on  their  hinges,  disclosing 
a  line  of  pikemen  drawn  up  under  the  vaulted  entrance;  a 
sharp  command  was  uttered  by  an  officer  at  their  head, 
causing  the  two  sentries  to  advance  across  the  bridge;  a 
great  roaring  howl  rose  from  the  surging  crowd;  and  in 
an  instant  the  whole  lane  was  in  confusion.  Robin  felt 
himself  pushed  this  way  and  that;  he  struggled  violently, 
driving  his  elbows  right  and  left;  was  lifted  for  a  moment 
clean  from  his  feet  by  the  pressure  about  him;  slipped 
down  again;  gained  a  yard  or  two;  lost  them;  gained  three 
or  four  in  a  sudden  swirl;  and  immediately  found  his  feet 
on  wood  instead  of  earth;  and  himself  racing  desperately 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  353 

«i  a  loose  group  of  runners,  across  the  bridge;  and  beneath 
the  arch  of  the  castle-gate. 


II 

When  he  was  able  to  take  breath  again,  and  to  substitute 
thought  for  blind  instinct,  he  found  himself  tramping  in 
a  kind  of  stream  of  men  into  what  appeared  an  impene- 
trably packed  crowd.  He  was  going  between  ropes,  how- 
ever, which  formed  a  lane  up  which  it  was  possible  to  move. 
This  lane,  after  crossing  half  the  court,  wheeled  suddenly 
to  one  side  and  doubled  on  itself,  conducting  the  new- 
comers behind  the  crowd  of  privileged  persons  that  had 
come  into  the  castle  overnight,  or  had  been  admitted  three 
or  four  hours  ago.  These  persons  were  all  people  of  qual- 
ity; many  of  them,  out  of  a  kind  of  sympathy  for  what 
was  to  happen,  were  in  black.  They  stood  there  in  rows, 
scarcely  moving,  scarcely  speaking,  some  even  bare-headed, 
filling  up  now,  so  far  as  the  priest  could  see,  the  entire 
court,  except  in  that  quarter  in  which  he  presently  found 
himself — the  furthest  corner  away  from  where  rose  up  the 
tall  carved  and  traceried  windows  of  the  banqueting-hall. 
Yet,  though  no  man  spoke  above  an  undertone,  a  steady 
low  murmur  filled  the  court  from  side  to  side,  like  the 
sound  of  a  wagon  rolling  over  a  paved  road. 

He  reached  his  place  at  last,  actually  against  the  wall  of 
the  soldiers'  lodgings,  and  found,  presently,  that  a  low 
row  of  projecting  stones  enabled  him  to  raise  himself  a  few 
inches,  and  see,  at  any  rate,  a  little  better  than  his  neigh- 
bours. He  had  perceived  one  thing  instantly — namely, 
that  his  dream  of  getting  near  enough  to  the  Queen  to  give 
her  absolution  before  her  death  was  an  impossible  one. 
He  had  known  since  yesterday  that  the  execution  was  to 
iake  place  in  the  hall,  and  here  was  he,  within  the  court 


354  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

certainly,  yet  as  far  as  possible  away  from  where  he  most 
desired  to  be. 


The  last  two  days  had  gone  by  in  a  horror  that  there  is 
no  describing.  All  the  hours  of  them  he  had  passed  at  his 
parlour  window,  waiting  hopelessly  for  the  summons  which 
never  came.  John  Merton  had  gone  to  the  castle  and  come 
back,  each  time  with  more  desolate  news.  There  was  not 
a  possibility,  he  said,  when  the  news  was  finally  certified, 
of  getting  a  place  in  the  hall.  Three  hundred  gentlemen 
had  had  those  places  already  assigned;  four  or  five  hun- 
dred more,  it  was  expected,  would  have  space  reserved  for 
them  in  the  courtyard.  The  only  possibility  was  to  be  early 
at  the  gateway,  since  a  limited  number  of  these  would 
probably  be  admitted  an  hour  or  so  before  the  time  fixed 
for  the  execution. 

The  priest  had  seen  many  sights  from  his  parlour  win- 
dow during  those  two  days. 

On  Monday  he  had  seen,  early  in  the  morning,  Mr. 
Beale  ride  out  with  his  men  to  go  to  my  lord  Shrewsbury, 
who  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  had  seen  him  return  in 
time  for  dinner,  with  a  number  of  strangers,  among  whom 
was  an  ecclesiastic.  On  inquiry,  he  found  this  to  be  Dr. 
Fletcher,  Dean  of  Peterborough,  who  had  been  appointed 
to  attend  Mary  both  in  her  lodgings  and  upon  the  scaffold. 
In  the  afternoon  the  street  was  not  empty  for  half  an  hour. 
From  all  sides  poured  in  horsemen;  gentlemen  riding  in 
with  their  servants;  yeomen  and  farmers  come  in  from  the 
countryside,  that  they  might  say  hereafter  that  they  had  at 
least  been  in  Fotheringay  when  a  Queen  suffered  the  death 
of  the  axe.  So  the  dark  had  fallen,  yet  lights  moved  about 
continually,  and  horses'  hoofs  never  ceased  to  beat  or  the 
voices  of  men  to  talk.  Until  he  fell  asleep  at  last  in  his 
window-seat,  he  listened  always  to  these  things;  watched 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  355 

the  lights ;  prayed  softly  to  himself ;  clenched  his  nails  into 
his  hands  for  indignation;  and  looked  again.  On  the  Tues- 
day morning  came  the  sheriff,  to  dine  at  the  castle  with 
Sir  Amyas — a  great  figure  of  a  man,  dignified  and  stal- 
wart, riding  in  the  midst  of  his  men.  After  dinner  came 
the  Earl  of  Kent,  and,  last  of  all,  my  lord  Shrewsbury 
himself — he  who  had  been  her  Grace's  gaoler,  until  he 
proved  too  kind  for  Elizabeth's  taste — now  appointed,  with 
peculiar  malice,  to  assist  at  her  execution.  He  looked  pale 
and  dejected  as  he  rode  past  beneath  the  window. 

Yet  all  this  time  the  supreme  horror  had  been  that  the 
end  was  not  absolutely  certain.  All  in  Fotheringay  were 
as  convinced  as  men  could  be,  who  had  not  seen  the  war- 
rant nor  heard  it  read,  that  Mr.  Beale  had  brought  it  with 
him  on  Sunday  night;  the  priest,  above  all,  from  his  com- 
munications with  Mr.  Bourgoign,  was  morally  certain  that 
the  terror  was  come  at  last.  ...  It  was  not  until  the  last 
night  of  Mary's  life  on  earth  was  beginning  to  close  in  that 
John  Merton  came  up  to  the  parlour,  white  and  terrified, 
to  tell  him  that  he  had  been  in  his  master's  room  half  an 
hour  ago,  and  that  Mr.  Melville  had  come  in  to  them,  his 
face  all  slobbered  with  tears,  and  had  told  him  that  he 
had  but  just  come  from  her  Grace's  rooms,  and  had  heard 
with  his  own  ears  the  sentence  read  to  her,  and  her  gal- 
lant and  noble  answer.  ...  He  had  bidden  him  to  go 
straight  off  to  the  priest,  with  a  message  from  Mr.  Bour- 
goign and  himself,  to  the  effect  that  the  execution  was  ap- 
pointed for  eight  o'clock  next  morning;  and  that  he  was 
to  be  at  the  gate  of  the  castle  not  later  than  three  o'clock, 
if,  by  good  fortune,  he  might  be  admitted  when  the  gates 
were  opened  at  seven. 


356  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Ill 

And  now  that  the  priest  was  in  his  place,  he  began  again 
to  think  over  that  answer  of  the  Queen.  The  very  words  of 
it,  indeed,  he  did  not  know  for  a  month  or  two  later,  when 
Mr.  Bourgoign  wrote  to  him  at  length;  but  this,  at  least, 
he  knew,  that  her  Grace  had  said  (and  no  man  contradicted 
her  at  that  time)  that  she  would  shed  her  blood  to-morrow 
with  all  the  happiness  in  the  world,  since  it  was  for  the 
cause  of  the  Catholic  and  Roman  Church  that  she  died. 
It  was  not  for  any  plot  that  she  was  to  die:  she  professed 
again,  kissing  her  Bible  as  she  did  so,  that  she  was  utterly 
guiltless  of  any  plot  against  her  sister.  She  died  because 
she  was  of  that  Faith  in  which  she  had  been  born,  and 
which  Elizabeth  had  repudiated.  As  for  death,  she  did 
not  fear  it;  she  had  looked  for  it  during  all  the  eighteen 
years  of  her  imprisonment. 

It  was  at  a  martyrdom,  then,  that  he  was  to  assist.  .  .  . 
He  had  known  that,  without  a  doubt,  ever  since  the  day 
that  Mary  had  declared  her  innocence  at  Chartley.  There 
had  been  no  possibility  of  thinking  otherwise;  and,  as  he 
reflected  on  this,  he  remembered  that  he,  too,  was  guilty 
of  the  same  crime;  .  .  .  and  he  wondered  whether  he,  too, 
would  die  as  manfully,  if  the  need  for  it  ever  came. 

Then,  in  an  instant,  he  was  called  back,  by  the  sudden 
crash  of  horns  and  drums  playing  all  together.  He  saw 
again  the  ranks  of  heads  before  him:  the  great  arched 
windows  of  the  hall  on  the  other  side  of  the  court,  the  grim 
dominating  keep,  and  the  merciless  February  morning  sky 
over  all. 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  what  was  going  on. 

On  all  sides  of  him  men  jostled  and  murmured  aloud. 
One  said,  "  She  is  coming  down " ;  another,  "  It  is  all 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  357 

over  " ;  another,  "  They  have  awakened  her."  "  What  is 
it?  what  is  it?  "  whispered  Robin  to  the  air,  watching  waves 
of  movement  pass  over  the  serried  heads  before  him.  The 
lights  were  still  burning  here  and  there  in  the  windows, 
and  the  tall  panes  of  the  hall  were  all  aglow,  as  if  a  great 
fire  burned  within.  Overhead  the  sky  had  turned  to  day- 
light at  last,  but  they  were  grey  clouds  that  filled  the 
heavens  so  far  as  he  could  see.  Meanwhile,  the  horns 
brayed  in  unison,  a  rough  melody  like  the  notes  of  bugles, 
and  the  drums  beat  out  the  time. 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause — in  which  the  lapse  of 
time  was  incalculable.  Time  had  no  meaning  here:  men 
waited  from  incident  to  incident  only — the  moving  of  a  line 
of  steel  caps,  a  pause  in  the  music,  a  head  thrust  out  from 
a  closed  window  and  drawn  back  again.  .  .  .  Again  the 
music  broke  out,  and  this  time  it  was  an  air  that  they  played 
— a  lilting  melancholy  melody,  that  the  priest  recognised, 
yet  could  not  identify.  Men  laughed  subduedly  near  him; 
he  saw  a  face  wrinkled  with  bitter  mirth  turned  back,  and 
he  heard  what  was  said.  It  was  "  Jumping  Joan  "  that 
was  being  played — the  march  consecrated  to  the  burning 
of  witches.  He  had  heard  it  long  ago,  as  a  boy.  .  .  . 

Then  the  rumour  ran  through  the  crowd,  and  spent  itself 
at  last  in  the  corner  where  the  priest  stood  trembling  with 
wrath  and  pity. 

"  She  is   in  the  hall." 

It  was  impossible  to  know  whether  this  were  true,  or 
whether  she  had  not  been  there  half  an  hour  already.  The 
horror  was  that  all  might  be  over,  or  not  yet  begun,  or  in 
the  very  act  of  doing.  He  had  thought  that  there  would 
be  some  pause  or  warning — that  a  signal  would  be  given, 
perhaps,  that  all  might  bare  their  heads  or  pray,  at  this 
violent  passing  of  a  Queen.  But  there  was  none.  The 
heads  surged  and  quieted;  murmurs  burst  out  and  died 


358  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

again;  and  all  the  while  the  hateful,  insolent  melody  rose 
and  fell;  the  horns  bellowed;  the  drums  crashed.  It 
sounded  like  some  shocking  dance-measure;  a  riot  of  des- 
perate spirits  moved  in  it,  trampling  up  and  down,  as  if  in 
one  last  fling  of  devilish  gaiety.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  the  heads  grew  still;  a  wave  of  motion- 
lessness  passed  over  them,  as  if  some  strange  sympathy 
were  communicated  from  within  those  tall  windows.  The 
moments  passed  and  passed.  It  was  impossible  to  hear 
those  murmurs,  through  the  blare  of  the  instruments;  there 
was  one  sound  only  that  could  penetrate  them;  and  this, 
rising  from  what  seemed  at  first  the  wailing  of  a  child,  grew 
and  grew  into  the  shrill  cries  of  a  dog  in  agony.  At  the 
noise  once  more  a  roar  of  low  questioning  surged  up  and 
fell.  Simultaneously  the  music  came  to  an  abrupt  close; 
and,  as  if  at  a  signal,  there  sounded  a  great  roar  of  voices, 
all  shouting  together  within  the  hall.  It  rose  yet  louder, 
broke  out  of  doors,  and  was  taken  up  by  those  outside. 
The  court  was  now  one  sea  of  tossing  heads  and  open 
mouths  shouting — as  if  in  exultation  or  in  anger.  Robin 
fought  for  his  place  on  the  projecting  stones,  clung  to  the 
rough  wall,  gripped  a  window-bar  and  drew  himself  yet 
higher. 

Then,  as  he  clenched  himself  tight  and  stared  out  again 
towards  the  tall  windows  that  shone  in  bloody  flakes  of 
fire  from  the  roaring  logs  within;  a  sudden  and  profound 
silence  fell  once  more  before  being  shattered  again  by  a 
thousand  roaring  throats.  .  .  . 

For  there,  in  full  view  beyond  the  clear  glass  stood  a 
tall,  black  figure,  masked  to  the  mouth,  who  held  in  his  out- 
stretched hands  a  wide  silver  dish,  in  which  lay  something 
white  and  round  and  slashed  with  crimson.  .  .  . 


PART  IV 


CHAPTER  I 

I 

"  THERE  is  no  more  to  be  said,  then,"  said  Marjorie,  and 
leaned  back,  with  a  white,  exhausted  face.  "  We  can  do  no 
more." 

It  was  a  little  council  of  Papists  that  was  gathered — a 
year  after  the  Queen's  death  at  Fotheringay — in  Mistress 
Manners'  parlour.  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert  was  there;  he 
had  ridden  up  an  hour  before  with  heavy  news  from  Pad- 
ley  and  its  messenger.  Mistress  Alice  was  there,  quiet 
as  ever,  yet  paler  and  thinner  than  in  former  years  (Mis- 
tress Babington  herself  had  gone  back  to  her  family  last 
year).  And,  last,  Robin  himself  was  there,  having  himself 
borne  the  news  from  Derby. 

He  had  had  an  eventful  year,  yet  never  yet  had  he  come 
within  reach  of  the  pursuivant.  But  he  had  largely  effected 
this  by  the  particular  care  which  he  had  observed  with 
regard  to  Matstead,  and  his  silence  as  to  his  own  identity. 
Extraordinary  care,  too,  was  observed  by  his  friends,  who 
had  learned  by  now  to  call  him  even  in  private  by  his 
alias ;  and  it  appeared  certain  that  beyond  a  dozen  or  two 
of  discreet  persons  it  was  utterly  unsuspected  that  the 
stately  bearded  young  gentleman  named  Mr.  Robert  Alban 
— the  "  man  of  God,"  as,  like  other  priests,  he  was  com- 
monly called  amongst  the  Catholics — had  any  connection 
whatever  with  the  hawking,  hunting,  and  hard-riding  lover 
of  Mistress  Manners.  It  was  known,  indeed,  that  Mr. 
Robin  had  gone  abroad  years  ago  to  be  made  priest;  but 
those  who  thought  of  him  at  all,  or,  at  least  as  returned, 

361 


362  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

believed  him  sent  to  some  other  part  of  England,  for  the 
sake  of  his  father,  and  it  was  partly  because  of  the  very 
fact  that  his  father  was  so  hot  against  the  Papists  that  it 
had  been  thought  safe  at  Rheims  to  send  him  to  Derby- 
shire, since  this  would  be  the  very  last  place  in  which  he 
would  be  looked  for. 

He  had  avoided  Matstead  then — riding  through  it  once 
only  by  night,  with  strange  emotions — and  had  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  the  south  of  Derbyshire,  crossing  more  than 
once  over  into  Stafford  and  Chester,  and  returning  to  Pad- 
ley  or  to  Booth's  Edge  once  in  every  three  or  four  months. 
He  had  learned  a  hundred  lessons  in  these  wanderings 
»f  his. 

The  news  that  he  had  now  brought  with  him  was  of  the 
worst.  He  had  heard  from  Catholics  in  Derby  that  Mr. 
Simpson,  returned  again  after  his  banishment,  recaptured 
a  month  or  two  ago,  and  awaiting  trial  at  the  Lent  Assizes, 
was  beginning  to  falter.  Death  was  a  certainty  for  him 
this  time,  and  it  appeared  that  he  had  seemed  very  tim- 
orous before  two  or  three  friends  who  had  visited  him  in 
gaol,  declaring  that  he  had  done  all  that  a  man  could  do, 
that  he  was  being  worn  out  by  suffering  and  privation, 
and  that  there  was  some  limit,  after  all,  to  what  God 
Almighty  should  demand. 

Marjorie  had  cried  out  just  now,  driven  beyond  herself 
at  the  thought  of  what  all  this  must  mean  for  the  Catho- 
lics of  the  countryside,  many  of  whom  already  had  fallen 
away  during  the  last  year  or  two  beneath  the  pitiless  storm 
of  fines,  suspicions,  and  threats — had  cried  out  that  it  was 
impossible  that  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Simpson  could  fall ;  that 
the  ruin  it  would  bring  upon  the  Faith  must  be  propor- 
tionate to  the  influence  he  already  had  won  throughout  the 
country  by  his  years  of  labour;  entreating,  finally,  when 
the  trustworthiness  of  the  report  had  been  forced  upon 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  363 

her  at  last,  that  she  herself  might  be  allowed  to  go  and 
see  him  and  speak  with  him  in  prison. 

This,  however,  had  been  strongly  refused  by  her  coun- 
sellors just  now.  They  had  declared  that  her  help  was 
invaluable;  that  the  amazing  manner  in  which  her  little 
retired  house  on  the  moors  had  so  far  evaded  grave  suspi- 
cion rendered  it  one  of  the  greatest  safeguards  that  the 
hunted  Catholics  possessed ;  that  the  work  she  was  doing  by 
her  organization  of  messengers  and  letters  must  not  be 
risked,  even  for  the  sake  of  a  matter  like  this.  .  .  . 

She  had  given  in  at  last.  But  her  spirit  seemed  broken 
altogether. 

II 

"  There  is  one  more  matter,"  said  Robin  presently,  un- 
crossing one  splashed  leg  from  over  the  other.  "  I  had  not 
thought  to  speak  of  it;  but  I  think  it  best  now  to  do  so. 
It  concerns  myself  a  little;  and,  therefore,  if  I  may  flatter 
myself,  it  concerns  my  friends,  too." 

He  smiled  genially  upon  the  company;  for  if  there  was 
one  thing  more  than  another  he  had  learned  in  his  travels, 
it  was  that  the  tragic  air  never  yet  helped  any  man. 

Marjorie  lifted  her  eyes  a  moment. 

"  Mistress  Manners,"  he  said,  "  you  remember  my  speak- 
ing to  you  after  Fotheringay,  of  a  fellow  of  my  lord 
Shrewsbury's  who  honoured  me  with  his  suspicions  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  him  from  that  day  to  this — 
to  this,"  he  added.  "  And  this  morning  in  the  open  street 
in  Derby  whom  should  I  meet  with  but  young  Merton  and 
his  father.  (Her  Grace's  servants  have  suffered  horribly 
since  last  year.  But  that  is  a  tale  for  another  day.)  Well: 
I  stopped  to  speak  with  these  two.  The  young  man  hath 
ieft  Mr.  Melville's  service  a  while  back,  it  seems;  and  is  to 


364  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

try  his  fortune  in  France.  Well;  we  were  speaking  of 
this  and  that,  when  who  should  come  by  but  a  party  of  men 
and  my  lord  Shrewsbury  in  the  midst,  riding  with  Mr. 
Roger  Columbell;  and  immediately  behind  them  my  friend 
of  the  '  New  Inn  '  of  Fotheringay.  It  was  all  the  ill-for- 
tune in  the  world  that  it  should  be  at  such  moment;  if 
he  had  seen  me  alone  he  would  have  thought  no  more  of 
me;  but  seeing  me  with  young  Jack  Merton,  he  looked 
from  one  to  the  other.  And  I  will  stake  my  hat  he  knew 
me  again." 

Marjorie  was  looking  full  at  him  now. 

"  What  was  my  lord  Shrewsbury  doing  in  Derby  with 
Mr.  Columbell?"  mused  Mr.  John,  biting  his  moustaches. 

"  It  was  the  very  question  I  put  to  myself,"  said  Robin. 
"  And  I  took  the  liberty  of  seeing  where  they  went.  They 
went  to  Mr.  Columbell's  own  house,  and  indoors  of  it.  The 
serving-men  held  the  horses  at  the  door.  I  watched  them 
awhile  from  Mr.  Biddell's  window;  but  they  were  still 
there  when  I  came  away  at  last." 

"  What  hour  was  that?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  That  would  be  after  dinner-time.  I  had  dined  early ; 
and  I  met  them  afterwards.  My  lord  would  surely  be 
dining  with  Mr.  Columbell.  But  that  is  no  answer  to  my 
question.  It  rather  pierces  down  to  the  further  point,  Why 
was  my  lord  Shrewsbury  dining  with  Mr.  Columbell? 
Shrewsbury  is  a  great  lord ;  Mr.  Columbell  is  a  little  magis- 
trate. My  lord  hath  his  own  house  in  the  country,  and 
there  be  good  inns  in  Derby." 

He  stopped  short. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mistress  Manners  ?  "  he  asked. 

"What  of  yourself?"  she  said  sharply;  "you  were 
speaking  of  yourself." 

Robin  laughed. 

"  I  had  forgotten  myself  for  once !  .  .  .  Why,  yes ;   I 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  S65 

intended  to  ask  the  company  what  I  had  best  do.  What 
with  this  news  of  Mr.  Simpson,  and  the  report  Mistress 
Manners  gives  us  of  the  country-folk,  a  poor  priest  must 
look  to  himself  in  these  days;  and  not  for  his  own  sake 
only.  Now,  my  lord  Shrewsbury's  man  knows  nothing  of 
me  except  that  I  had  strange  business  at  Fotheringay  a 
year  ago.  But  to  have  had  strange  business  at  Fotheringay 
a  year  ago  is  a  suspicious  circumstance;  and " 

"  Mr.  Alban,"  broke  in  the  old  man,  "  you  had  best  do 
nothing  at  all.  You  were  not  followed  from  Derby;  you 
are  as  safe  in  Padley  or  here  as  you  could  be  anywhere  in 
England.  All  that  you  had  best  do  is  to  remain  here  a 
week  or  two  and  not  go  down  to  Derby  again  for  the  pres- 
ent. I  think  that  showing  of  yourself  openly  in  towns 
hath  its  dangers  as  well  as  its  safeguards." 

Mr.  John  glanced  round.  Marjorie  bowed  her  head  in 
assent. 

"  I  will  do  precisely  as  you  say,"  said  Robin  easily. 
"  And  now  for  the  news  of  her  Grace's  servants." 

He  had  already  again  and  again  told  the  tale  of  Fother- 
ingay so  far  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  very  parlour.  At 
first  he  had  hardly  found  himself  able  to  speak  of  it  with- 
out tears.  He  had  described  the  scene  he  had  looked  upon 
when,  in  the  rush  that  had  been  made  towards  the  hall 
after  Mary's  head  had  been  shown  at  the  window,  he  had 
found  a  place,  and  had  been  forced  along,  partly  with  his 
will  and  partly  against  it,  right  through  the  great  doors 
into  the  very  place  where  the  Queen  had  suffered;  and  he 
had  told  the  story  so  well  that  his  listeners  had  seemed  to 
see  it  for  themselves — the  great  hall  hung  with  black 
throughout ;  the  raised  scaffold  at  the  further  end  beside  the 
fire  that  blazed  on  the  wide  hearth;  the  Queen's  servants 
being  led  away  half-swooning  as  he  came  in;  the  dress  of 
velvet,  the  straw  and  the  bloody  sawdust,  the  beads  and 


366  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

all  the  other  pitiful  relics  being  heaped  upon  the  fire  as 
he  stood  there  in  the  struggling  mob;  and,  above  all,  the 
fallen  body,  in  its  short  skirt  and  bodice  lying  there  where 
it  fell  beside  the  low,  black  block.  He  had  told  all  this 
as  he  had  seen  it  for  himself,  until  the  sheriff's  men  drove 
them  all  forth  again  into  the  court ;  and  he  had  told,  too,  of 
all  that  he  had  heard  afterwards,  that  had  happened  until 
my  lord  Shrewsbury's  son  had  ridden  out  at  a  gallop  to  take 
the  news  to  court,  and  the  imprisoned  watchers  had  been 
allowed  to  leave  the  Castle;  how  the  little  dog,  that  he  had 
heard  wailing,  had  leapt  out  as  the  head  fell  at  the  third 
stroke,  so  that  he  was  all  bathed  in  his  mistress'  blood — 
one  of  the  very  spaniels,  no  doubt,  which  he  himself  had 
seen  at  Chartley;  how  the  dog  was  taken  away  and  washed 
and  given  afterwards  into  Mr.  Melville's  charge;  how  the 
body  and  the  head  had  been  taken  upstairs,  had  been 
roughly  embalmed,  and  laid  in  a  locked  chamber;  how  her 
servants  had  been  found  peeping  through  the  keyhole  and 
praying  aloud  there,  till  Sir  Amyas  had  had  the  hole 
stopped  up.  He  had  told  them,  too,  of  the  events  that 
followed;  of  the  mass  M.  de  Preau  had  been  permitted  to 
say  in  the  Queen's  oratory  on  the  morning  after;  and  of  the 
oath  that  he  had  been  forced  to  take  that  he  would  not  say 
it  again ;  of  the  destruction  of  the  oratory  and  the  con- 
fiscation of  the  altar  furniture  and  vestments. 

All  this  he  had  told,  little  by  little;  and  of  the  Queen's 
noble  bearing  upon  the  scaffold,  her  utter  fearlessness,  her 
protestations  that  she  died  for  her  religion  and  for  that 
only,  and  of  the  pesterings  of  Dr.  Fletcher,  Dean  of  Peter- 
borough, who  had  at  last  given  over  in  despair,  and  prayed 
instead.  The  rest  they  knew  for  themselves — of  the  miser- 
able falseness  of  Elizabeth,  who  feigned,  after  having 
signed  the  warrant  and  sent  it,  that  it  was  Mr.  Davison's 
fault  for  doing  as  she  told  him;  and  of  her  accusations 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  367 

(accusations  that  deceived  no  man)  against  those  who  had 
served  her;  of  the  fires  made  in  the  streets  of  all  great 
towns  as  a  mark  of  official  rejoicing  over  Mary's  death; 
and  of  the  pitiful  restitution  made  by  the  great  funeral  in 
Peterborough,  six  months  after,  and  the  royal  escutcheons 
and  the  tapers  and  the  hearse,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  lying 
pretences  by  which  the  murderess  sought  to  absolve  her  vic- 
tim from  the  crime  of  being  murdered.  Well;  it  was  all 
over.  .  .  . 

And  now  he  told  them  of  what  he  had  heard  to-day  from 
young  Merton  in  Derby;  of  how  Nau,  Mary's  French  sec- 
retary— the  one  who  had  served  her  for  eleven  years  and 
had  been  loaded  by  her  kindness — had  been  rewarded  also 
by  Elizabeth,  and  that  the  nature  of  his  services  was  un- 
mistakable; while  all  the  rest  of  them,  who  had  refused 
utterly  to  take  any  part  in  the  insolent  mourning  at  Peter- 
borough, either  in  the  Cathedral  or  at  the  banquet,  had 
fallen  under  her  Grace's  displeasure,  so  that  some  of  them, 
even  now,  were  scarcely  out  of  ward,  Mr.  Bourgoign  alone 
excepted,  since  he  was  allowed  to  take  the  news  of  the 
death  to  their  Graces  of  France,  and  had,  most  wisely, 
remained  there  ever  since. 

So  the  party  sat  round  the  fire  in  the  same  little  parlour 
where  they  had  sat  so  often  before,  with  the  lutes  and 
wreaths  embroidered  on  the  hangings  and  Icarus  in  the 
chariot  of  the  sun;  and  Robin,  after  telling  his  tale,  an- 
swered question  after  question,  till  silence  fell,  and  all  sat 
motionless,  thinking  of  the  woman  who,  while  dead,  yet 
spoke. 

Then  Mr.  John  stood  up,  clapped  the  priest  on  the  back, 
and  said  that  they  two  must  be  off  to  Padley  for  the  night. 


368  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Ill 

They  had  all  risen  to  their  feet  when  a  knocking  came  on 
the  door,  and  Janet  looked  in.  She  seemed  a  little  per- 
turbed. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  she  said  to  Mr.  John,  "  one  of  your 
men  is  come  up  from  Padley;  and  wishes  to  speak  to  you 
alone." 

Mr.  John  gave  a  quick  glance  at  the  others. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,"  he  said,  "  I  will  go  down  and 
speak  with  him  in  the  hall." 

The  rest  sat  down  again.  It  was  the  kind  of  interrup- 
tion that  might  be  wholly  innocent;  yet,  coming  when  it 
did,  it  affected  them  a  little.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing 
but  bad  news  everywhere. 

The  minutes  passed,  yet  no  one  returned.  Once  Marjorie 
went  to  the  door  and  listened,  but  there  was  only  the  faint 
wail  of  the  winter  wind  up  the  stairs  to  be  heard.  Then, 
five  minutes  later,  there  were  steps  and  Mr.  John  came  in. 
His  face  looked  a  little  stern,  but  he  smiled  with  his  mouth. 

"  We  poor  Papists  are  in  trouble  again,"  he  said.  "  Mis- 
tress Manners,  you  must  let  us  stay  here  all  night,  if  you 
will;  and  we  will  be  off  early  in  the  morning.  There  is  a 
party  coming  to  us  from  Derby — to-morrow  or  next  day: 
it  is  not  known  which." 

"Why,  yes!  And  what  party?  "  said  Marjorie,  quietly 
enough,  though  she  must  have  guessed  its  character.  The 
smile  left  his  mouth. 

"  It  is  my  son  that  is  behind  it,"  he  said.  "  I  had  won- 
dered we  had  not  had  news  of  him !  There  is  to  be  a  gen- 
eral search  for  seminarists  in  the  High  Peak  "  (  he  glanced 
at  Robin),  "  by  order  of  my  lord  Shrewsbury.  Your  name- 
sake, mistress,  Mr.  Tohn  Manners,  and  our  friend  Mr. 
Columbell,  are  commissioned  to  search;  and  Mr.  Fenton 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  369 

and  myself  are  singled  out  to  be  apprehended  immediately. 
Thomas  knows  that  I  am  at  Padley,  and  that  Mr.  Eyre  will 
come  in  there  for  Candlemas,  the  day  after  to-morrow;  in 
that  I  recognize  my  son's  knowledge.  Well,  I  will  dis- 
patch my  man  who  brought  the  news  to  Mr.  Eyre  to  bid 
him  to  avoid  the  place;  and  we  two,  Mr.  Alban  and  myself, 
will  make  our  way  across  the  border  into  Stafford." 

"  There  are  none  others  coming  to  Padley  to-morrow?  " 
asked  Marjorie. 

"  None  that  I  know  of.  They  will  come  in  sometimes 
without  warning;  but  I  cannot  help  that.  Mr.  Fenton  will 
be  at  Tansley:  he  told  me  so." 

"How  did  the  news  come?"  asked  Robin. 

"  It  seems  that  the  preacher  Walton,  in  Derby,  hath  been 
warned  that  we  shall  be  delivered  to  him  two  days  hence. 
It  was  his  servant  that  told  one  of  mine.  I  fear  he  will  be 
a-preparing  his  sermons  to  us,  all  for  nothing." 

He  smiled  bitterly  again.  Robin  could  see  the  misery  in 
this  man's  heart  at  the  thought  that  it  was  his  own  son 
who  had  contrived  this.  Mr.  Thomas  had  been  quiet  for 
many  months,  no  doubt  in  order  to  strike  the  more  surely 
in  his  new  function  as  "  sworn  man  "  of  her  Grace.  Yet 
he  would  seem  to  have  failed. 

"  We  shall  not  get  our  candles  then,  this  year  either," 
smiled  Mr.  Thomas.  "  Lanterns  are  all  that  we  shall 
have." 

There  was  not  much  time  to  be  lost.  Luggage  had  to  be 
packed,  since  it  would  not  be  safe  for  the  three  to  return 
until  at  least  two  or  three  weeks  had  passed;  and  Marjorie, 
besides,  had  to  prepare  a  list  of  places  and  names  that  must 
be  dealt  with  on  their  way — places  where  word  must  be  left 
that  the  hunt  was  up  again,  and  names  of  particular  per- 
sons that  were  to  be  warned.  Mr.  Garlick  and  Mr.  Lud- 


370  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

lam  were  in  the  county,  and  these  must  be  specially  in- 
formed, since  they  were  known,  and  Mr.  Garlick  in  par- 
ticular had  already  suffered  banishment  and  returned  again, 
so  that  there  would  be  no  hope  for  him  if  he  were  once  more 
captured. 

The  four  sat  late  that  night;  and  Robin  wondered  more 
than  ever,  not  only  at  the  self-command  of  the  girl,  but  at 
her  extraordinary  knowledge  of  Catholic  affairs  in  the 
county.  She  calculated,  almost  without  mistake,  as  was 
afterwards  shown,  not  only  which  priests  were  in  Derby- 
shire, but  within  a  very  few  miles  of  where  they  would  be 
and  at  what  time:  she  showed,  half-smiling,  a  kind  of 
chart  which  she  had  drawn  up,  of  the  movements  of  the 
persons  concerned,  explaining  the  plan  by  which  each 
priest  (if  he  desired)  might  go  on  his  own  circuit  where 
he  would  be  most  needed.  She  lamented,  however,  the 
fewness  of  the  priests,  and  attributed  to  this  the  growing 
laxity  of  many  families — living,  it  might  be,  in  upland  farms 
or  in  inaccessible  places,  where  they  could  but  very  seldom 
have  the  visits  of  the  priest  and  the  strength  of  the  sacra- 
ments. 

Before  midnight,  therefore,  the  two  travellers  had  com- 
plete directions  for  their  journey,  as  well  as  papers  to  help 
their  memories,  as  to  where  the  news  was  to  be  left.  And  at 
last  Mr.  John  stood  up  and  stretched  himself. 

"  \^e  must  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  We  must  be  booted  by 
five." 

Marjorie  nodded  to  Alice,  who  stood  up,  saying  she  would 
show  him  where  his  bed  had  been  prepared. 

Robin  lingered  for  a  moment  to  finish  his  last  notes. 

"  Mr.  Alban,"  said  Marjorie  suddenly,  without  lifting 
her  eyes  from  the  paper  on  which  she  wrote. 

"Yes?" 

"  You  will  take  care  to-morrow,  will  you  not  ?  "  she  said. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  371 

"  Mr.  John  is  a  little  hot-headed.  You  must  keep  him  to 
his  route  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Robin,  smiling. 

She  lifted  her  clear  eyes  to  his  without  tremor  or  shame. 

"  My  heart  would  be  broken  altogether  if  aught  happened 
to  you.  I  look  to  you  as  our  Lord's  chief  soldier  in  this 
county." 

"  But " 

"  That  is  so,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  know  any  man  who 
has  been  made  perfect  in  so  short  a  time.  You  hold  us  all 
in  your  hands." 


CHAPTER  II 


IT  was  in  Mr.  Basseti's  house  at  Langley  that  the  news 
of  the  attack  on  Padley  reached  the  two  travellers  a  month 
later,  and  it  bore  news  in  it  that  they  little  expected. 

For  it  seemed  that,  entirely  unexpectedly,  there  had 
arrived  at  Padley  the  following  night  no  less  than  three  of 
the  FitzHerbert  family,  Mr.  Anthony  the  seventh  son,  with 
two  of  his  sisters,  as  well  as  Thomas  FitzHerbert's  wife, 
who  rode  with  them,  whether  as  a  spy  or  not  was  never 
known.  Further,  Mr.  Fenton  himself,  hearing  of  their 
coming,  had  ridden  up  from  Tansley,  and  missed  the  mes- 
senger that  Marjorie  had  sent  out.  They  had  not  arrived 
till  late,  missing  again,  by  a  series  of  mischances,  the 
scouts  Marjorie  had  posted;  and,  on  discovering  their 
danger,  had  further  discovered  the  house  to  be  already 
watched.  They  judged  it  better,  therefore,  as  Marjorie 
said  in  her  letter,  to  feign  unconsciousness  of  any  charge 
against  them,  since  there  was  no  priest  in  the  house  who 
could  incriminate  them. 

All  this  the  travellers  learned  for  the  first  time  at  Lang- 
ley. 

They  had  gone  through  into  Staffordshire,  as  had  been 
arranged,  and  there  had  moved  about  from  house  to  house 
of  Catholic  friends  without  any  trouble.  It  was  when  at 
last  they  thought  it  safe  to  be  moving  homewards,  and  had 
arrived  at  Langley,  that  they  found  Marjorie's  letter  await- 
ing them.  It  was  addressed  to  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert  and 
was  brought  by  Robin's  old  servant,  Dick  Sampson. 

872 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  373 

"  The  assault  was  made,"  wrote  Marjorie,  "  according 
to  the  arrangement.  Mr.  Columbell  himself  came  with  a 
score  of  men  and  surrounded  the  house  very  early,  having 
set  watchers  all  in  place  the  evening  before:  they  had 
made  certain  they  should  catch  the  master  and  at  least 
a  priest  or  two.  But  I  have  very  heavy  news,  for  all  that; 
for  there  had  come  to  the  house  after  dark  Mr.  Anthony 
FitzHerbert,  with  two  of  his  sisters,  Mrs.  Thomas  Fitz- 
Herbert  and  Mr.  Fenton  himself,  and  they  have  carried  the 
two  gentlemen  to  the  Derby  gaol.  I  have  had  no  word  from 
Mr.  Anthony,  but  I  hear  that  he  said  that  he  was  glad  that 
his  father  was  not  taken,  and  that  his  own  taking  he  puts 
down  to  his  brother's  account,  as  yourself,  sir,  also  did. 
The  men  did  no  great  harm  in  Padley  beyond  breaking  a 
panel  or  two:  they  were  too  careful,  I  suppose,  of  what 
they  think  will  be  Mr.  Topcliffe's  property  some  day !  And 
they  found  none  of  the  hiding-holes,  which  is  good  news. 
The  rest  of  the  party  they  let  go  free  again  for  the 
present. 

"  I  have  another  piece  of  bad  news,  too — which  is  no 
more  than  what  we  had  looked  for:  that  Mr.  Simpson  at 
the  Assizes  was  condemned  to  death,  but  has  promised  to 
go  to  church,  so  that  his  life  is  spared  if  he  will  do  so.  He 
is  still  in  the  gaol,  however,  where  I  pray  God  that  Mr. 
Anthony  may  meet  with  him  and  bring  him  to  a  better 
mind;  so  that  he  hath  not  yet  denied  our  Lord,  even 
though  he  hath  promised  to  do  so. 

"  May  God  comfort  and  console  you,  Mr.  FitzHerbert, 
for  this  news  of  Mr.  Anthony  that  I  send." 

The  letter  ended  with  messages  to  the  party,  with  in- 
structions for  their  way  of  return  if  they  should  come  within 
the  next  week;  and  with  the  explanation,  given  above,  of 
the  series  of  misfortunes  by  which  any  came  to  be  at  Pad- 


374  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

ley  that  night,  and  how  it  was  that  they  did  not  attempt 
to  break  out  again. 

The  capture  of  Mr.  Anthony  was,  indeed,  one  more  blow 
to  his  father;  but  Robin  was  astonished  how  cheerfully  he 
bore  it;  and  said  as  much  when  they  two  were  alone  in  the 
garden. 

The  grey  old  man  smiled,  while  his  eyelids  twitched  a 
little. 

"  They  say  that  when  a  man  is  whipped  he  feels  no  more 
after  awhile.  The  former  blows  prepare  him  and  dull  his 
nerves  for  the  later,  which,  I  take  it,  is  part  of  God's  mercy. 
Well,  Mr.  Alban,  my  father  hath  been  in  prison  a  great 
while  now;  my  son  Thomas  is  a  traitor,  and  a  sworn  man 
of  her  Grace;  I  myself  have  been  fined  and  persecuted  till 
I  have  had  to  sell  land  to  pay  the  fines  with.  I  have  seen 
family  after  family  fall  from  their  faith  and  deny  it.  So 
I  take  it  that  I  feel  the  joy  that  I  have  a  son  who  is  ready 
to  suffer  for  it,  more  than  the  pain  I  have  in  thinking  on 
his  sufferings.  The  one  may  perhaps  atone  for  the  sins 
of  the  other,  and  yet  help  him  to  repentance." 

Life  here  at  Langley  was  more  encouraging  than  the  fur- 
tive existence  necessary  in  the  north  of  Derbyshire. 

Mr.  Bassett  had  a  confident  way  with  him  that  was  like 
wine  to  fainting  hearts,  and  he  had  every  reason  to  be  con- 
fident; since  up  to  the  present,  beyond  being  forced  to  pay 
the  usual  fines  for  recusancy,  he  had  scarcely  been  troubled 
at  all;  and  lived  in  considerable  prosperity,  having  even 
been  sheriff  of  Stafford  in  virtue  of  his  other  estates  at 
Blore.  His  house  at  Langley  was  a  great  one,  standing  in 
a  park,  and  showing  no  signs  of  poverty;  his  servants  were 
largely  Catholic;  he  entertained  priests  and  refugees  of  all 
kinds  freely,  although  discreetly;  and  he  laughed  at  the 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  375 

notion  that  the  persecution  could  be  of  long  endur- 
ance. 

The  very  first  night  the  travellers  had  come  he  had 
spoken  with  considerable  freedom  after  supper. 

"  Look  more  hearty !  "  he  cried.  "  The  Spanish  fleet 
will  be  here  before  summer  to  relieve  us  of  all  troubles, 
as  of  all  heretics,  too.  Her  Grace  will  have  to  turn  her 
coat  once  more,  I  think,  when  that  comes  to  pass." 

Mr.  John  glanced  at  him  doubtfully. 

"  First,"  he  said,  T'  no  man  knows  whether  it  will  come. 
And,  next,  I  for  one  am  not  sure  if  I  even  wish  for  it." 

Mr.  Bassett  laughed  loudly. 

"  You  will  dance  for  joy !  "  he  said.  "  And  why  do  you 
not  know  whether  you  wish  it  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  taste  to  be  a  Spanish  subject." 

"  Why,  nor  have  I !  But  the  King  of  Spain  will  but  sail 
away  again  when  he  hath  made  terms  against  the  priva- 
teers, whether  they  be  those  that  ply  on  the  high  seas 
against  men's  bodies,  or  here  in  England  against  their  souls. 
There  will  be  no  subjection  of  England  beyond  that." 

Mr.  John  was  silent. 

"  Why,  I  heard  from  Sir  Thomas  but  a  week  ago,  to 
ask  for  a  little  money  to  pay  his  fines  with.  He  said  that 
repayment  should  follow  so  soon  as  the  fleet  should  come. 
Those  were  his  very  words." 

"  You  sent  the  money,  then?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  made  shift  that  a  servant  should  throw 
down  a  bag  with  ten  pounds  in  it,  into  a  bush,  and  that 
Brittlebank — your  brother's  man — should  see  him  do  it! 
And  lo !  when  we  looked  again,  the  bag  was  gone !  " 

He  laughed  again  with  open  mouth.  Certainly  he  was 
an  inspiriting  man  with  a  loud  bark  of  his  own;  but  Robin 
imagined  that  he  would  not  bite  too  cruelly  for  all  that. 
But  he  saw  another  side  of  him  presently. 


376  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  What  was  that  matter  of  Mr.  Sutton,  the  priest  who 
was  executed  in  Stafford  last  year?  "  asked  Mr.  John  sud- 
denly. 

The  face  of  the  other  changed  as  abruptly.  His  eyes 
became  pin-points  under  his  grey  eyebrows  and  his  mouth 
tightened. 

"  What  of  him  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  was  reported  that  you  might  have  stayed  the 
execution,  and  would  not.  I  did  not  believe  a  word 
of  it." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Bassett  sharply — "  at  least  a  por- 
tion of  it." 

"True?" 

"  Listen,"  cried  the  other  suddenly,  "  and  tell  me  what 
you  would  have  done.  Mr.  Sutton  was  taken,  and  was 
banished,  and  came  back  again,  as  any  worthy  priest  would 
do.  Then  he  was  taken  again,  and  condemned.  I  did  my 
utmost  to  save  him,  but  I  could  not.  Then,  as  I  would 
never  have  any  part  in  the  death  of  a  priest  for  his  religion, 
another  was  appointed  to  carry  the  execution  through. 
Three  days  before  news  was  brought  to  me  by  a  private 
hand  that  Mr.  Sutton  had  promised  to  give  the  names  of 
priests  whom  he  knew,  and  of  houses  where  he  had  said 
mass,  and  I  know  not  what  else;  and  it  was  said  to  me  that 
I  might  on  this  account  stay  the  execution  until  he  had  told 
all  that  he  could.  Now  I  knew  that  I  could  not  save  his 
life  altogether;  that  was  forfeited  and  there  could  be  no 
forgiveness.  All  that  I  might  do  was  to  respite  him  for  a 
little — and  for  what?  That  he  might  damn  his  own  soul 
eternally  and  bring  a  great  number  of  good  men  into  trouble 
and  peril  of  death  for  themselves.  I  sent  the  messenger 
away  again,  and  said  that  I  would  listen  to  no  such  tales. 
And  Mr.  Sutton  died  like  a  good  priest  three  days  after, 
repenting,  I  doubt  not,  bitterly,  of  the  weakness  into  which 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  377 

he  had  fallen.  Now,  sir,  what  would  you  have  done  in  my 
place?  " 

He  wagged  his  face  fiercely  from  side  to  side. 

Mr.  John  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  nodded  without 
speaking.  Robin  sat  silent:  it  was  not  only  for  priests, 
it  seemed,  that  life  presented  a  tangle. 


II 

The  evening  before  the  two  left  for  the  north  again,  Mr. 
Bassett  took  them  both  into  his  own  study.  It  was  a  little 
room  opening  out  of  his  bedroom,  and  was  more  full  of 
books  than  Robin  had  ever  seen,  except  in  the  library  at 
Rheims,  in  any  room  in  the  world.  A  shelf  ran  round  the 
room,  high  on  the  wall,  and  was  piled  with  manuscripts  to 
the  ceiling.  Beneath,  the  book-shelves  that  ran  nearly 
round  the  room  were  packed  with  volumes,  and  a  number 
more  lay  on  the  table  and  even  in  the  corners. 

"  This  is  my  own  privy  chamber,"  said  Mr.  Bassett  to 
the  priest.  "  My  other  friends  have  seen  it  many  a  time, 
but  I  thought  I  would  show  it  to  your  Reverence,  too." 

Robin  looked  round  him  in  wonder:  he  had  no  idea  that 
his  host  was  a  man  of  such  learning. 

"  All  the  books  are  ranged  in  their  proper  places,"  went 
on  the  other.  "  I  could  put  my  finger  on  any  of  them  blind- 
fold. But  this  is  the  shelf  I  wished  you  to  see." 

He  took  him  to  one  that  was  behind  the  door,  holding  up 
the  candle  that  he  might  see.  The  shelf  had  a  box  or  two 
on  it,  besides  books,  and  these  he  opened  and  set  on  the 
table.  Robin  looked  in,  as  he  was  told,  but  could  under- 
stand nothing  that  he  saw:  in  one  was  a  round  ball  of 
crystal  on  a  little  gold  stand,  wrapped  round  in  velvet;  in 
another  some  kind  of  a  machine  with  wheels;  in  a  third, 
some  dried  substances,  as  of  he*bs,  tied  together  with  silk. 


378  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

He  inspected  them  gravely,  but  was  not  invited  to  touch 
them.  Then  his  host  touched  him  on  the  breast  with  one 
finger,  and  recoiled,  smiling. 

"  This  is  my  magic,"  he  said.  "  John  here  does  not  like 
it;  neither  did  poor  Mr.  Fen  ton  when  he  was  here;  but  I 
hold  there  is  no  harm  in  such  things  if  one  does  but  observe 
caution." 

"  What  do  you  do  with  them,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  priest 
curiously,  for  he  was  not  sure  whether  the  man  was  serious. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  hold  that  God  has  written  His  will  in  the 
stars,  and  in  the  burning  of  herbs,  and  in  the  shining  of  the 
sun,  and  such  things.  There  is  no  black  magic  here.  But, 
just  as  we  read  in  the  sky  at  morning,  if  it  be  red  or  yel- 
low, whether  it  will  be  foul  or  fair,  so  I  hold  that  God  has 
written  other  secrets  of  His  in  other  things ;  and  that  by 
observing  them  and  judging  rightly  we  may  guess  what  He 
has  in  store.  I  knew  that  a  prince  was  to  die  last  year 
before  ever  it  happened.  I  knew  that  a  fleet  of  ships  will 
come  to  England  this  year,  before  ever  an  anchor  is 
weighed.  And  I  would  have  you  notice  that  here  are  Mr. 
FitzHerbert  and  your  Reverence,  too,  fleeing  for  your  lives ; 
and  here  sit  I  safe  at  home;  and  all,  as  I  hold,  because  I 
have  been  able  to  observe  by  my  magic  what  is  to  come  to 
pass." 

"  But  that  strikes  at  the  doctrine  of  free-will,"  cried  the 
priest. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  think  it  does  not.  God's  foreknowledge 
doth  not  hinder  the  use  of  our  free-will  (which  is  a  mys- 
tery, no  doubt,  yet  none  the  less  true).  Then  why  should 
God's  foreknowledge  any  more  hinder  our  free-will,  when 
He  chooses  to  communicate  it  to  us  ?  " 

Robin  was  silent.  He  knew  little  or  nothing  of  these 
things,  except  from  his  theological  reading.  Yet  he  felt 
uneasy.  The  other  said  nothing. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  379 

"And  the  stars,  too?"  he  asked. 

"  I  hold/'  said  Mr.  Bassett,  "  that  the  stars  have  certain 
influences  and  powers  upon  those  that  are  born  under  their 
signs.  I  do  not  hold  that  we  are  so  ruled  by  these  that  we 
have  no  action  of  our  own,  any  more  than  we  are  compelled 
to  be  wet  through  by  rain  or  scorched  by  the  sun:  we  may 
always  come  into  a  house  or  shelter  beneath  a  tree,  and 
thus  escape  them.  So,  too,  I  hold,  with  the  stars.  There 
is  an  old  saying,  sir:  '  The  fool  is  ruled  by  his  stars;  the 
wise  man  rules  them.'  That  is,  in  a  nutshell,  my  faith  in 
the  matter.  I  have  told  Mr.  Fenton's  fortune  here,  and 
Mr.  FitzHerbert's,  only  they  will  never  listen  to  me." 

Robin  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  dark  outside  long 
ago;  they  had  supped  at  sunset,  and  sat  for  half  an  hour 
over  their  banquet  of  sweetmeats  and  wine  before  coming 
upstairs.  And  the  room,  too,  was  as  dark  as  night,  except 
where  far  off  in  the  west,  beyond  the  tall  trees  of  the 
park,  a  few  red  streaks  lingered.  He  felt  oppressed  and 
miserable.  The  place  seemed  to  him  sinister.  He  hated 
these  fumblings  at  locks  that  were  surely  meant  to  remain 
closed.  Yet  he  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Mr.  John  had 
wandered  off  to  one  of  the  windows  and  was  humming  un- 
easily to  himself. 

Then,  suddenly,  an  intense  curiosity  overcame  him. 

His  life  was  a  strange  and  perilous  one;  he  carried  it  in 
his  hand  every  day.  In  the  morning  he  could  not  be  sure 
but  that  he  would  be  fleeing  before  evening.  As  he  fell 
asleep,  he  could  not  be  sure  that  he  would  not  be  awakened 
to  a  new  dream.  He  had  long  ago  conquered  those  moods 
of  terror  which,  in  spite  of  his  courage,  had  come  down  on 
him  sometimes,  in  some  lonely  farm,  perhaps,  where  flight 
would  be  impossible — or,  in  what  was  far  more  dangerous, 
in  some  crowded  inn  where  every  movement  was  known — 
these  had  passed,  he  thought,  ne"er  to  come  back. 


*80  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

But  in  that  little  book-lined  room,  with  these  curious 
things  in  boxes  on  the  table,  and  his  merry  host  peering  at 
him  gravely,  and  the  still  evening  outside;  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  to-morrow  he  was  to  ride  back  to  his  own  country, 
whence  he  had  fled  for  fear  of  his  life,  six  weeks  ago; 
leaving  the  security  of  this  ex-sheriff's  house  for  the  perils 
of  the  Peak  and  all  that  suspected  region  from  which  even 
now,  probably,  the  pursuit  had  not  altogether  died  away — 
here  a  sudden  intense  desire  to  know  what  the  future  might 
hold  overcame  him. 

"  Tell  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "  You  have  told  Mr.  FitzHer- 
bert's  fortune,  you  say,  as  well  as  others.  Have  you  told 
mine  since  I  have  been  here?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Mr.  John  was  silent,  with 
his  back  turned.  Robin  looked  up  at  his  host,  wondering 
why  he  did  not  answer.  Then  Mr.  Bassett  took  up  the 
candle. 

"  Come,"  he  said ;  "  we  have  been  here  long  enough." 


CHAPTER  III 


"  THERE  will  be  a  company  of  us  to-night,"  said  Mr.  John 
to  the  two  priests,  as  he  helped  them  to  dismount.  "  Mr. 
Alban  has  sent  his  man  forward  from  Derby  to  say  that 
he  will  be  here  before  night." 

"  Mr.  Ludlam  and  I  are  together  for  once/'  said  Mr. 
Garlick.  "  We  must  separate  again  to-morrow,  he  is  for 
the  north  again,  he  tells  me.  There  has  been  no  more 
trouble  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word  of  it.  They  were  beaten  last  time  and  will 
not  try  again,  I  think,  for  the  present.  You  heard  of  the 
attempt  at  Candlemas,  then  ?  " 

It  had  been  a  quiet  time  enough  ever  since  Lent,  through- 
out the  whole  county;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  heat  of  the 
assault  had  cooled  for  want  of  success.  Plainly  a  great  deal 
had  been  staked  upon  the  attack  on  Padley,  which,  for  its 
remoteness  from  towns,  was  known  to  be  a  meeting-place 
where  priests  could  always  find  harbourage.  And,  indeed, 
it  was  time  that  the  Catholics  should  have  a  little  breathing- 
space.  Things  had  been  very  bad  with  them — the  arrest  of 
Mr.  Simpson,  and,  still  more,  his  weakness  (though  he  had 
not  as  yet  actually  fulfilled  his  promise  of  going  to  church, 
and  was  still  detained  in  gaol)  ;  the  growing  lukewarmness 
of  families  that  seldom  saw  a  priest;  the  blows  struck  at 
the  FitzHerbert  family;  and,  above  all,  the  defection  of 
Mr.  Thomas — all  these  things  had  brought  the  hearts  of 
the  faithful  very  low.  Mr.  John  himself  had  had  an  un- 

881 


382  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

troubled  time  since  his  return  a  little  before  Easter;  but  he 
had  taken  the  precaution  not  to  remain  too  long  at  Padley 
at  one  time;  he  had  visited  his  other  estates  at  Swynnerton 
and  elsewhere,  and  had  even  been  back  again  at  Langley. 
But  there  had  been  no  hint  of  any  pursuit.  Padley  had 
remained  untouched;  the  men  went  about  their  farm  busi- 
ness; the  housekeeper  peered  from  her  windows,  without 
a  glimpse  of  armed  men  such  as  had  terrified  the  household 
on  Candlemas  day. 

It  was  only  last  night,  indeed,  that  the  master  had  re- 
turned, in  time  to  meet  the  two  priests  who  had  asked  for 
shelter  for  a  day  or  two.  They  had  stayed  here  before 
continually,  as  well  as  at  Booth's  Edge,  during  their  travels, 
both  in  the  master's  absence  and  when  he  was  at  home. 
There  were  a  couple  of  rooms  kept  vacant  always  for  "  men 
of  God " ;  and  all  priests  who  came  were  instructed,  of 
course  (in  case  of  necessity),  as  to  the  hiding-holes  that 
Mr.  Owen  had  contrived  a  few  years  before.  Never,  how- 
ever, had  there  been  any  use  made  of  them. 

It  was  a  hot  July  afternoon  when  the  two  priests  were 
met  to-day  by  Mr.  John  outside  the  arched  gate  that  ran 
between  the  hall  and  the  buttery.  They  had  already  dined 
at  a  farm  a  few  miles  down  the  valley,  but  they  were  taken 
round  the  house  at  once  to  the  walled  garden,  where  drink 
and  food  were  set  out.  Here  their  dusty  boots  were  pulled 
off;  they  laid  aside  their  hats,  and  were  presently  at  their 
ease  again. 

They  were  plain  men,  these  two;  though  Mr.  Garlick 
had  been  educated  at  Oxford,  and,  before  his  going  to 
Rheims,  had  been  schoolmaster  at  Tideswell.  In  appear- 
ance he  was  a  breezy  sunburnt  man,  with  very  little  of  the 
clerk  about  him,  and  devoted  to  outdoor  sports  (which  was 
something  of  a  disguise  to  him  since  he  could  talk  hawking 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  383 

and  riding  in  mixed  company  with  a  real  knowledge  of  the 
facts).  He  spoke  in  a  loud  voice  with  a  strong  Derbyshire 
accent,  which  he  had  never  lost  and  now  deliberately  used. 
Mr.  Ludlam  looked  far  more  of  the  priest:  he  was  a  clean- 
shaven man,  of  middle-age,  with  hair  turning  to  grey  on  his 
temples,  and  with  a  very  pleasant  disarming  smile;  he 
spoke  very  little,  but  listened  with  an  interested  and  atten- 
tive air.  Both  were,  of  course,  dressed  in  the  usual  riding 
costume  of  gentlemen,  and  used  good  horses. 

It  was  exceedingly  good  to  sit  here,  with  the  breeze  from 
over  the  moors  coming  down  on  them,  with  cool  drink  be- 
fore them,  and  the  prospect  of  a  secure  day,  at  any  rate,  in 
this  stronghold.  Their  host,  too,  was  contented  and  serene, 
and  said  so,  frankly. 

"  I  am  more  at  peace,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  than  I  have 
been  for  the  past  five  years.  My  son  is  in  gaol  yet ;  and  I 

am  proud  that  he  should  be  there,  since  my  eldest  son " 

(he  broke  off  a  moment).  "  And  I  think  the  worst  of  the 
storm  is  over.  Her  Grace  is  busying  herself  with  other 
matters." 

"  You  mean  the  Spanish  fleet,  sir? "  said  Mr.  Gar- 
lick. 

He  nodded. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  look  for  final  deliverance  from  Spain," 
he  said.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  be  aught  but  an  Englishman, 
as  I  said  to  Mr.  Bassett  a  while  ago.  But  I  think  the  fleet 
will  distract  her  Grace  for  a  while;  and  it  may  very  well 
mean  that  we  have  better  treatment  hereafter." 

"What  news  is  there,  sir?" 

"  I  hear  that  the  Londoners  buzz  continually  with  false 
alarms.  It  was  thought  that  the  fleet  might  arrive  on  any 
day;  but  I  understand  that  the  fishing-boats  say  that 
nothing  has  yet  been  seen.  By  the  end  of  the  month,  I 
daresay,  we  shall  have  news." 


384  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

So  they  talked  pleasantly  in  the  shade  till  the  shadows 
began  to  lengthen.  They  were  far  enough  here  from  the 
sea-coast  to  feel  somewhat  detached  from  the  excitement 
that  was  beginning  to  seethe  in  the  south.  At  Plymouth, 
it  was  said,  all  had  been  in  readiness  for  a  month  or  two 
past;  at  Tilbury,  my  lord  Leicester  was  steadily  gathering 
troops.  But  here,  inland,  it  was  more  of  an  academic 
question.  The  little  happenings  in  Derby;  the  changes  of 
weather  in  the  farms;  the  deaths  of  old  people  from  the 
summer  heats — these  things  were  far  more  vital  and  sig- 
nificant than  the  distant  thunders  of  Spain.  A  beacon  or 
two  had  been  piled  on  the  hills,  by  order  of  the  authorities, 
to  pass  on  the  news  when  it  should  come;  a  few  lads  had 
disappeared  from  the  countryside  to  drill  in  Derby  market- 
place; but  except  for  these  things,  all  was  very  much  as 
it  had  been  from  the  beginning.  The  expected  catastro- 
phe meant  little  more  to  such  folk  than  the  coming  of  the 
Judgment  Day — certain,  but  infinitely  remote  from  the 
grasp  of  the  imagination. 

The  three  were  talking  of  Robin  as  they  came  down 
towards  the  house  for  supper,  and,  as  they  turned  the 
corner,  he  himself  was  at  that  moment  dismounting. 

He  looked  surprisingly  cool  and  well-trimmed,  consider- 
ing his  ride  up  the  hot  valley.  He  had  taken  his  journey 
easily,  he  said,  as  he  had  had  a  long  day  yesterday. 

"  And  I  made  a  round  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mistress  Man- 
ners," he  said.  "  I  found  her  a-bed  when  I  got  there;  and 
Mrs.  Alice  says  she  will  not  be  at  mass  to-morrow.  She 
stood  too  long  in  the  sun  yesterday,  at  the  carrying  of 
the  hay;  it  is  no  more  than  that." 

"  Mistress  Manners  is  a  marvel  to  me,"  said  Garlick,  as 
they  went  towards  the  house.  "  Neither  wife  nor  nun. 
And  she  rules  her  house  like  a  man;  and  she  knows  if  a 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  385 

priest  lift  his  little  finger  in  Derby.  She  sent  me  my  whole 
itinerary  for  this  last  circuit  of  mine;  and  every  point  fell 
out  as  she  said." 

Robin  thought  that  he  had  seldom  had  so  pleasant  a 
supper  as  on  that  night.  The  windows  of  the  low  hall 
where  he  had  dined  so  often  as  a  boy,  were  flung  wide  to 
catch  the  scented  evening  air.  The  sun  was  round  to  the 
west  and  threw  long,  golden  rays,  that  were  all  lovely  light 
and  no  heat,  slantways  on  the  paved  floor  and  the  polished 
tables  and  the  bright  pewter.  Down  at  the  lower  end  sat 
the  servants,  brown  men,  burned  by  the  sun;  lean  as 
panthers,  scarcely  speaking,  ravenous  after  their  long  day 
in  the  hayfields ;  and  up  here  three  companions  with  whom 
he  was  wholly  at  his  ease.  The  evening  was  as  still  as 
night,  except  for  the  faint  peaceful  country  sounds  that 
came  up  from  the  valley  below — the  song  of  a  lad  riding 
home ;  the  barking  of  a  dog ;  the  bleat  of  sheep — all  minute 
and  delicate,  as  unperceived,  yet  as  effective,  as  a  rich  fab- 
ric on  which  a  design  is  woven.  It  seemed  to  him  as  he 
listened  to  the  talk — the  brisk,  shrewd  remarks  of  Mr. 
Garlick;  the  courteous  and  rather  melancholy  answers  of 
his  host;  as  he  watched  the  second  priest's  eyes  looking 
gently  and  pleasantly  about  him;  as  he  ate  the  plain,  good 
food  and  drank  the  country  drink,  that,  in  spite  of  all,  his 
lot  was  cast  in  very  sweet  places.  There  was  not  a  hint 
here  of  disturbance,  or  of  men's  passions,  or  of  ugly  strife: 
there  was  no  clatter,  as  in  the  streets  of  Derby,  or  pressure 
of  humanity,  or  wearying  politics  of  the  market-place. 
He  found  himself  in  one  of  those  moods  that  visit  all  men 
sometimes,  when  the  world  appears,  after  all,  a  homely 
and  a  genial  place;  when  the  simplest  things  are  the  best; 
when  no  excitement  or  ambition  or  furious  zeal  can  com- 
pare with  the  gentle  happiness  of  a  tired  body  that  is  in 


386  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  act  of  refreshment,  or  of  a  driven  mind  that  is  finding 
its  relaxation.  At  least,  he  said  to  himself,  he  would 
enjoy  this  night  and  the  next  day  and  the  night  after, 
with  all  his  heart. 

The  four  found  themselves  so  much  at  ease  here,  that 
the  dessert  was  brought  in  to  them  where  they  sat;  and  it 
was  then  that  the  first  unhappy  word  was  spoken. 

"  Mr.  Simpson !  "  said  Garlick  suddenly.  "  Is  there  any 
more  news  of  him  ?  " 

Mr.  John  shook  his  head. 

"  He  hath  not  yet  been  to  church,  thank  God !  "  he  said. 
"  So  much  I  know  for  certain.  But  he  hath  promised  to 

go." 

"  Why  is  he  not  yet  gone  ?  He  promised  a  great  while 
ago." 

"  I  hear  he  hath  been  sick.  Derby  gaol  is  a  pestiferous 
place.  They  are  waiting,  I  suppose,  till  he  is  well  enough 
to  go  publicly,  that  all  the  world  may  be  advertised  of  it !  " 

Mr.  Garlick  gave  a  bursting  sigh. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it  at  all,"  he  said.  "  There  has 
never  been  so  zealous  a  priest.  I  have  ridden  with  him 
again  and  again  before  I  was  a  priest.  He  was  always 
quiet;  but  I  took  him  to  be  one  of  those  stout-hearted 
souls  that  need  never  brag.  Why,  it  was  here  that  we 
heard  him  tell  of  Mr.  Nelson's  death !  " 

Mr.  John  threw  out  his  hands. 

"  These  prisons  are  devilish,"  he  said ;  "  they  wear  a 
man  out  as  the  rack  can  never  do.  Why,  see  my  son !  "  he 
cried.  "  Oh !  I  can  speak  of  him  if  I  am  but  moved  enough  ! 
It  was  that  same  Derby  gaol  that  wore  him  out  too !  It  is 
the  darkness,  and  the  ill  food,  and  the  stenches  and  the 
misery.  A  man's  heart  fails  him  there,  who  could  face  a 
thousand  deaths  in  the  sunlight.  Man  after  man  hath 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  387 

fallen  there — both  in  Derby,  and  in  London  and  in  all  the 
prisons.  It  is  their  heart  that  goes — all  the  courage  runs 
from  them  like  water,  with  their  health.  If  it  were  the 
rack  and  the  rope  only,  England  would  be  Catholic,  yet, 
I  think." 

The  old  man's  face  blazed  with  indignation;  it  was  not 
often  that  he  so  spoke  out  his  mind.  It  was  very  easy 
to  see  that  he  had  thought  continually  of  his  son's  fall. 

"  Mistress  Manners  hath  told  me  the  very  same  thing," 
said  Robin.  "  She  visited  Mr.  Thomas  in  gaol  once  at 
least.  She  said  that  her  heart  failed  her  altogether  there." 

Mr.  Ludlam  smiled. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  he  said  gently,  "  since  you  say  so. 
But  I  think  it  would  not  be  so  with  me.  The  rack  and  the 
rope,  rather,  are  what  would  shake  me  to  the  roots,  unless 
God  His  Grace  prevailed  more  than  it  ever  yet  hath  with 
Hie." 

He  smiled  again. 

Robin  shook  his  head  sharply. 

"  As  for  me !  "  he  said  grimly,  with  tight  lips. 

It  was  a  lovely  night  of  stars  as  the  four  stepped  out  of 
the  archway  before  going  upstairs  to  the  parlour.  Behind 
them  stood  the  square  and  solid  house,  resembling  a  very 
fortress.  The  lights  that  had  been  brought  in  still  shone 
through  the  windows,  and  a  hundred  night  insects  leapt  and 
poised  in  the  brightness. 

And  before  them  lay  the  deep  valley — silent  now  except 
for  the  trickle  of  the  stream;  dark  (since  the  moon  was 
not  yet  risen),  except  for  one  light  that  burned  far  away 
in  some  farm-house  on  the  other  side;  and  this  light  went 
out,  like  a  closing  eye,  even  as  they  looked.  But  overhead, 
where  God  dwelt,  all  heaven  was  alive.  The  huge  arch 
Besting,  as  it  appeared,  on  the  monstrous  bases  of  the 


388  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

moors  and  hills  standing  round  this  place,  like  the  moun- 
tains about  Jerusalem,  was  one  shimmering  vault  of  glory, 
as  if  it  was  there  that  the  home  of  life  had  its  place,  and 
this  earth  beneath  but  a  bedroom  for  mortals,  or  for  those 
that  were  too  weary  to  aspire  or  climb.  The  suggestion 
was  enormously  powerful.  Here  was  this  mortal  earth  that 
needed  rest  so  cruelly — that  must  have  darkness  to  refresh 
its  tired  eyes,  coolness  to  recuperate  its  passion,  and  silence, 
if  ever  its  ears  were  to  hear  again.  But  there  was  ra- 
diance unending.  All  day  a  dome  of  rigid  blue;  all  night 
a  span  of  glittering  lights — the  very  home  of  a  glory  that 
knows  no  waste  and  that  therefore  needs  no  reviving:  it 
was  to  that  only,  therefore,  that  a  life  must  be  chained 
which  would  not  falter  or  fail  in  the  unending  tides  and 
changes  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

A  soft  breeze  sprang  up  among  the  tops  of  the  chestnuts ; 
and  the  sound  was  as  of  the  going  of  a  great  company  that 
whispered  for  silence. 

II 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  dawn  that  the  first  mass  was 
said  next  morning  by  Mr.  Robert  Alban. 

The  chapel  was  decked  out  as  they  seldom  dared  to  deck 
it  in  those  days ;  but  the  failure  of  the  last  attempt  on 
this  place,  and  the  peace  that  had  followed,  made  them 
bold. 

The  carved  chest  of  newly-cut  oak  was  in  its  place,  with 
a  rich  carpet  of  silk  spread  on  its  face;  and,  on  the  top, 
the  three  linen  cloths  as  prescribed  by  the  Ritual.  Two 
silver  candlesticks,  that  stood  usually  on  the  high  shelf 
over  the  hall-fire,  and  a  silver  crucifix  of  Flemish  work, 
taken  from  the  hiding-place,  were  in  a  row  on  the  back, 
with  red  and  white  flowers  between.  Beneath  the  linen 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  389 

cloths  a  tiny  flat  elevation  showed  where  the  altar  stone 
lay.  The  rest  of  the  chapel,  in  its  usual  hangings,  had 
only  sweet  herbs  on  the  floor;  with  two  or  three  long  seats 
carried  up  from  the  hall  below.  An  extraordinary  sweet- 
ness and  peace  seemed  in  the  place  both  to  the  senses  and 
the  soul  of  the  young  priest  as  he  went  up  to  the  altar  to 
vest.  Confessions  had  been  heard  last  night;  and,  as  he 
turned,  in  the  absolute  stillness  of  the  morning,  and  saw, 
beneath  those  carved  angels  that  still  to-day  lean  from 
the  beams  of  the  roof,  the  whole  little  space  already  filled 
with  farm-lads,  many  of  whom  were  to  approach  the  altar 
presently,  and  the  grey  head  of  their  master  kneeling  on 
the  floor  to  answer  the  mass,  it  appeared  to  him  as  if  the 
promise  of  last  night  were  reversed,  and  that  it  was,  after 
all,  earth  rather  than  heaven  that  proclaimed  the  peace 
and  the  glory  of  God.  .  .  . 

Robin  served  the  second  mass  himself,  said  by  Mr.  Gar- 
lick,  and  made  his  thanksgiving  as  well  as  he  could  mean- 
while; but  he  found  what  appeared  to  him  at  the  time 
many  distractions,  in  watching  the  tanned  face  and  hands 
of  the  man  who  was  so  utterly  a  countryman  for  nine- 
tenths  of  his  life,  and  so  utterly  a  priest  for  the  rest.  His 
very  sturdiness  and  breeziness  made  his  reverence  the  more 
evident  and  pathetic:  he  read  the  mass  rapidly,  in  a  low 
voice,  harshened  by  shouting  in  the  open  air  over  his 
sports,  made  his  gestures  abruptly,  and  yet  did  the  whole 
with  an  extraordinary  attention.  After  the  communion, 
when  he  turned  for  the  wine  and  water,  his  face,  as  so 
often  with  rude  folk  in  a  great  emotion,  browned  as  it  was 
with  wind  and  sun,  seemed  lighted  from  within;  he  seemed 
etherealized,  yet  with  his  virility  all  alive  in  him.  A 
phrase,  wholly  inapplicable  in  its  first  sense,  came  irre- 
sistibly to  the  younger  priest's  mind  as  he  waited  on  him. 


390  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  When  the  strong  man,  armed,  keepeth  his  house,  his 
goods  are  in  peace." 

Robin  heard  the  third  mass,  said  by  Mr.  Ludlam,  from 
a  corner  near  the  door;  and  this  one,  too,  was  a  fresh  ex- 
perience. The  former  priest  had  resembled  a  strong  man 
subdued  by  grace;  the  second,  a  weak  man  ennobled  by  it. 
Mr.  Ludlam  was  a  delicate  soul,  smiling  often,  as  has  been 
said,  and  speaking  little — "  a  mild  man,"  said  the  country- 
folk. Yet,  at  the  altar  there  was  no  weakness  in  him;  he 
was  as  a  keen,  sharp  blade,  fitted  as  a  heavy  knife  cannot 
be,  for  fine  and  peculiar  work.  His  father  had  been  a 
yeoman,  as  had  the  other's ;  yet  there  must  have  been  some 
unusual  strain  of  blood  in  him,  so  deft  and  gentle  he  was — 
more  at  his  ease  here  at  God's  Table  than  at  the  table  of 
any  man.  ...  So  he,  too,  finished  his  mass,  and  began  to 
unvest.  .  .  . 

Then,  with  a  noise  as  brutal  as  a  blasphemy,  there  came 
a  thunder  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs;  and  a  man  burst  into 
the  room,  with  glaring  eyes  and  rough  gestures. 

"  There  is  a  company  of  men  coming  up  from  the  valley," 
he  cried;  "  and  another  over  the  moor.  .  .  .  And  it  is  my 
lord  Shrewsbury's  livery." 

Ill 

In  an  instant  all  was  in  confusion;  and  the  peace  had 
fled.  Mr.  John  was  gone;  and  his  voice  could  be  heard 
on  the  open  stairs  outside  speaking  rapidly  in  sharp,  low 
whispers  to  the  men  gathered  beneath;  and,  meanwhile, 
three  or  four  servants,  two  men  and  a  couple  of  maids, 
previously  drilled  in  their  duties,  were  at  the  altar,  on 
which  Mr.  Ludlam  had  but  that  moment  laid  down  his 
amice.  The  three  priests  stood  together  waiting,  fearing 
to  hinder  or  to  add  to  the  bustle.  A  low  wailing  rose  from 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  391 

outside  the  door;  and  Robin  looked  from  it  to  see  if  there 
were  anything  he  could  do.  But  it  was  only  a  little  country 
servant  crouching  on  the  tiny  landing  that  united  the  two 
sets  of  stairs  from  the  court,  with  her  apron  over  her 
head :  she  must  have  been  in  the  partitioned  west  end  of  the 
chapel  to  hear  the  mass.  He  said  a  word  to  her;  and  the 
next  instant  was  pushed  aside,  as  a  man  tore  by  bearing  a 
great  bundle  of  stuffs — vestments  and  the  altar  cloths. 
When  he  turned  again,  the  chapel  was  become  a  common 
room  once  more:  the  chest  stood  bare,  with  a  great  bowl  of 
flowers  on  it;  the  candlesticks  were  gone;  and  the  maid 
was  sweeping  up  the  herbs. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  said  a  sharp  voice  at  the  door, 
"  there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

He  went  out  with  the  two  others  behind,  and  followed 
Mr.  John  downstairs.  Already  the  party  of  servants  was 
dispersed  to  their  stations;  two  or  three  to  keep  the  doors, 
no  doubt,  and  the  rest  back  to  kitchen  work  and  the  like, 
to  give  the  impression  that  all  was  as  usual. 

The  four  went  straight  down  into  the  hall,  to  find  it 
empty,  except  for  one  man  who  stood  by  the  fire-place. 
But  a  surprising  change  had  taken  place  here.  Instead 
of  the  solemn  panelling,  with  the  carved  shield  that  cov- 
ered the  wall  over  the  hearth,  there  was  a  great  doorway 
opened,  through  which  showed,  not  the  bricks  of  the  chim- 
ney-breast, but  a  black  space  large  enough  to  admit  a  man. 

"  See  here,"  said  Mr.  John,  "  there  is  room  for  two  here, 
but  no  more.  There  is  room  for  a  third  in  another  little 
chamber  upstairs  that  is  nearly  joined  on  to  this:  but  it  is 
not  so  good.  Now,  gentlemen " 

"  This  is  the  safer  of  the  two?  "  asked  Robin  abruptly. 

"  I  think  it  to  be  so.     Make  haste,  gentlemen." 

Robin  wheeled  on  the  others.  He  said  that  there  was  no 
time  to  argue  in. 


392  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"  See !  "  he  said.  "  I  have  not  yet  been  taken  at  all. 
Mr.  Garlick  hath  been  taken;  and  Mr.  Ludlam  hath  had  a 
warning.  There  is  no  question  that  you  must  be  here." 

"  I  utterly  refuse "  began  Garlick. 

Robin  went  to  the  door  in  three  strides;  and  was  out  of 
it.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  ran  upstairs.  As 
he  reached  the  head  his  eye  caught  a  glint  of  sunlight  on 
some  metal  far  up  on  the  moor  beyond  the  belt  of  trees. 
He  did  not  turn  his  head  again;  he  went  straight  in  and 
waited. 

Presently  he  heard  steps  coming  up,  and  Mr.  John 
appeared  smiling  and  out  of  breath. 

"  I  have  them  in,"  he  said,  "  by  promising  that  there 
was  no  great  difference  after  all;  and  that  there  was  no 

time.  Now,  sir "  And  he  went  towards  the  wall  at 

which,  long  ago,  Mr.  Owen  had  worked  so  hard. 

"And  yourself,  sir?"  asked  Robin,  as  once  more  an 
innocent  piece  of  panelling  moved  outwards  under  Mr. 
John's  hand. 

"I'll  see  to  that;  but  not  until  you  are  in " 

"  But " 

The  old  man's  face  blazed  suddenly  up. 

"  Obey  me,  if  you  please.  I  am  the  master  here.  I  tell 
you  I  have  a  very  good  place." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  Robin  advanced  to  the 
opening,  and  sat  down  to  slide  himself  in.  It  was  a  little 
door  about  two  feet  square,  with  a  hole  beneath  it. 

"  Drop  gently,  Mr.  Alban,"  whispered  the  voice  in  his 
ear.  "  The  altar  vessels  are  at  the  bottom,  with  the  cru- 
cifix, on  some  soft  stuff.  .  .  .  That  is  it.  Slide  in  and  let 
yourself  slip.  There  is  some  food  and  drink  there,  too." 

Robin  did  so.  The  floor  of  the  little  chamber  was  about 
five  feet  down,  and  he  could  feel  woodwork  on  all  three 
sides  of  him. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  393 

"  When  the  door  is  closed/'  said  the  voice  from  the  day- 
light, "  push  a  pair  of  bolts  on  right  and  left  till  they  go 
home.  Tap  upon  the  shutter  when  it  is  done." 

The  light  vanished,  and  Robin  was  aware  of  a  faint 
smell  of  smoke.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  noticed 
a  newly  lit  fire  on  the  hearth  of  the  hall.  ...  He  found 
the  bolts,  pushed  them,  and  tapped  lightly  three  times. 
He  heard  a  hand  push  on  the  shutter  to  see  that  all  was 
secure,  and  then  footsteps  go  away  over  the  floor  on  a 
level  with  his  chin. 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  must  be  in  the  same  cham- 
ber with  his  two  fellow-priests,  separated  from  them  by 
the  flooring  on  which  he  stood.  He  rapped  gently  with 
his  foot  twice.  Two  soft  taps  came  back.  Silence  followed. 

IV 

Time,  as  once  before  in  his  experience,  seemed  wholly 
banished  from  this  place.  There  were  moments  of  reflec- 
tion when  he  appeared  to  himself  as  having  but  just  en- 
tered; there  were  other  moments  when  he  might  have  been 
here  for  an  eternity  that  had  no  divisions  to  mark  it.  He 
was  in  complete  and  utter  darkness.  There  was  not  a 
crack  anywhere  in  the  woodwork  (so  perfect  had  been  the 
young  carpenter's  handiwork)  by  which  even  a  glimmer  of 
light  could  enter.  A  while  ago  he  had  been  in  the  early 
morning  sunlight;  now  he  might  be  in  the  grave. 

For  a  while  his  emotions  and  his  thoughts  raced  one 
another,  tumbling  in  inextricable  confusion;  and  they  were 
all  emotions  and  thoughts  of  the  present:  intense  little 
visions  of  the  men  closing  round  the  house,  cutting  off 
escape  from  the  valley  on  the  one  side  and  from  the  wild 
upland  country  on  the  other;  questions  as  to  where  Mr. 
John  would  hide  himself;  minute  sensible  impressions  of 


894.  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

the  smoky  flavour  of  the  air,  the  unplaned  woodwork,  the 
soft  stuffs  beneath  his  feet.  Then  they  began  to  extend 
tKemselves  wider,  all  with  that  rapid  un jarring  swiftness: 
he  foresaw  the  bursting  in  of  his  stronghold;  the  footsteps 
within  three  inches  of  his  head;  the  crash  as  the  board  was 
kicked  in:  then  the  capture;  the  ride  to  Derby,  bound  on  a 
horse;  the  gaol;  the  questioning;  the  faces  of  my  lord 
Shrewsbury  and  the  magistrates  .  .  .  and  the  end.  .  .  . 
There  were  moments  when  the  sweat  ran  down  his  face, 
when  he  bit  his  lips  in  agony,  and  nearly  moaned  aloud. 
There  were  others  in  which  he  abandoned  himself  to  Christ 
crucified;  placed  himself  in  Everlasting  Hands  that  were 
mighty  enough  to  pluck  him  not  only  out  of  this  snare,  but 
from  the  very  hands  that  would  hold  him  so  soon;  Hands 
that  could  lift  him  from  the  rack  and  scaffold  and  set  him 
a  free  man  among  his  hills  again:  yet  that  had  not  done  so 
with  a  score  of  others  whom  he  knew.  He  thought  of  these, 
and  of  the  girl  who  had  done  so  much  to  save  them  all,  who 
was  now  saved  herself  by  sickness,  a  mile  or  two  away, 
from  these  hideous  straits.  Then  he  dragged  out  Mr. 
Maine's  beads  and  began  to  recite  the  "  Mysteries."  .  .  . 

There  broke  in  suddenly  the  first  exterior  sign  that  the 
hunters  were  on  them — a  muffled  hammering  far  beneath 
his  feet.  There  were  pauses;  then  voices  carried  up  from 
the  archway  nearly  beneath  through  the  hollowed  walls; 
then  hammering  again;  but  all  was  heard  as  through  wool. 

As  the  first  noise  broke  out  his  mind  rearranged  itself 
and  seemed  to  have  two  consciousnesses.  In  the  fore- 
ground he  followed,  intently  and  eagerly,  every  movement 
below;  in  the  background,  there  still  moved  before  him  the 
pageant  of  deeper  thoughts  and  more  remote — of  prayer 
and  wonder  and  fear  and  expectation;  and  from  that  on- 
wards it  continued  so  with  him.  Even  while  he  followed 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  395 

the  sounds,  he  understood  why  my  lord  Shrewsbury  had 
made  this  assault  so  suddenly,  after  months  of  peace.  .  .  . 
He  perceived  the  hand  of  Thomas  FitzHerbert,  too,  in  the 
precision  with  which  the  attack  had  been  made,  and  the 
certain  information  he  must  have  given  that  priests  would 
be  in  Padley  that  morning. 

There  were  noises  that  he  could  not  interpret — vague 
tramplings  from  a  direction  which  he  could  not  tell;  voices 
that  shouted;  the  sound  of  metal  on  stone. 

He  did  interpret  rightly,  however,  the  sudden  tumult  as 
the  gate  was  unbarred  at  last,  and  the  shrill  screaming  of 
a  woman  as  the  company  poured  through  into  the  house; 
the  clamour  of  voices  from  beneath  as  the  hall  below  was 
filled  with  men;  the  battering  that  began  almost  imme- 
diately; and,  finally,  the  rush  of  shod  feet  up  the  outside 
staircases,  one  of  which  led  straight  into  the  chapel  itself. 
Then,  indeed,  his  heart  seemed  to  spring  upwards  into  his 
throat,  and  to  beat  there,  as  loud  as  knocking,  so  loud  that 
it  appeared  to  him  that  all  the  house  must  hear  it. 

Yet  it  was  still  some  minutes  before  the  climax  came  to 
him.  He  was  still  standing  there,  listening  to  voices  talking, 
it  seemed,  almost  in  his  ears,  yet  whose  words  he  could  not 
hear;  the  vibration  of  feet  that  shook  the  solid  joist  against 
which  he  had  leaned  his  head,  with  closed  eyes;  the  brush 
of  a  cloak  once,  like  a  whisper,  against  the  very  panel  that 
shut  him  in.  He  could  attend  to  nothing  else;  the  rest 
of  the  drama  was  as  nothing  to  him:  he  had  his  business  in 
hand — to  keep  away  from  himself,  by  the  very  intentness 
of  his  will  and  determination,  the  feet  that  passed  so  close. 

The  climax  came  in  a  sudden  thump  of  a  pike  foot 
within  a  yard  of  his  head,  so  imminent,  that  for  an  instant 
he  thought  it  was  at  his  own  panel.  There  followed  a 
splintering  sound  of  a  pike-head  in  the  same  place.  He 


896  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

understood.  They  were  sounding  on  the  woodwork  and 
piercing  all  that  rang  hollow.  .  .  .  His  turn,  then,  would 
come  immediately. 

Talking  voices  followed  the  crash;  then  silence;  then  the 
vibration  of  feet  once  more.  The  strain  grew  unbearable; 
his  fingers  twisted  tight  in  his  rosary,  lifted  themselves 
once  or  twice  from  the  floor  edge  on  which  they  were 
gripped,  to  tear  back  the  bolts  and  declare  himself.  It 
seemed  to  him  in  those  instants  a  thousand  times  better  to 
come  out  of  his  own  will,  rather  than  to  be  poked  and 
dragged  from  his  hole  like  a  badger.  In  the  very  midst  of 
such  imaginings  there  came  a  thumping  blow  within  three 
inches  of  his  face,  and  then  silence.  He  leaned  back  des- 
perately to  avoid  the  pike-thrust  that  must  follow,  with  his 
eyes  screwed  tight  and  his  lips  mumbling.  He  waited; 
.  .  .  and  then,  as  he  waited,  he  drew  an  irrepressible  hiss- 
ing breath  of  terror,  for  beneath  the  soft  padding  under 
his  feet  he  could  feel  movements;  blow  follow  blow,  from 
the  same  direction,  and  last  a  great  clamour  of  voices 
all  shouting  together. 

Feet  ran  across  the  floor  on  which  his  hands  were  gripped 
again,  and  down  the  stairs.  He  perceived  two  things:  the 
chapel  was  empty  again,  and  the  priests  below  had  been 
found. 


He  could  follow  every  step  of  the  drama  after  that,  for 
he  appeared  to  himself  now  as  a  mere  witness,  without 
personal  part  in  it. 

First,  there  were  voices  below  him,  so  clear  and  close 
that  he  could  distinguish  the  intonation,  and  who  it  was 
that  spoke,  though  the  words  were  inaudible. 

It  was  Mr.  Garlick  who  first  spoke — a  sentence  of  a 
Aozen  words,  it  might  be,  consenting,  no  doubt,  to  come 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  397 

out  without  being  dragged;  congratulating,  perhaps  (as  the 
manner  was),  the  searchers  on  their  success.  A  murmur 
of  answer  came  back,  and  then  one  sharp,  peevish  voice 
by  itself.  Again  Mr.  Garlick  spoke,  and  there  followed 
the  shuffling  of  movements  for  a  long  while;  and  then,  so 
far  as  the  little  chamber  was  concerned,  empty  silence. 
But  from  the  hall  rose  up  a  steady  murmur  of  talk  once 
more.  .  .  . 

Again  Robin's  heart  leaped  in  him,  for  there  came  the 
rattle  of  a  pike-end  immediately  below  his  feet.  They 
were  searching  the  little  chamber  beneath,  from  the  level 
of  the  hall,  to  see  if  it  were  empty.  The  pike  was  presently 
withdrawn. 

For  a  long  while  the  talking  went  on.  So  far  as  the 
rest  of  the  house  was  concerned,  the  hidden  man  could 
tell  nothing,  or  whether  Mr.  John  were  taken,  or  whether 
the  search  were  given  up.  He  could  not  even  fix  his  mind 
on  the  point;  he  was  constructing  for  himself,  furiously 
and  intently,  the  scene  he  imagined  in  the  hall  below;  he 
thought  he  saw  the  two  priests  barred  in  behind  the  high 
table;  my  lord  Shrewsbury  in  the  one  great  chair  in  the 
midst  of  the  room;  Mr.  Columbell,  perhaps,  or  Mr.  John 
Manners  talking  in  his  ear;  the  men  on  guard  over  the 
priests  and  beside  the  door;  and  another,  maybe,  standing 
by  the  hearth. 

He  was  so  intent  on  this  that  he  thought  of  little  else; 
though  still,  on  a  strange  background  of  another  conscious- 
ness, moved  scenes  and  ideas  such  as  he  had  had  at  the 
beginning.  And  he  was  torn  from  this  contemplation  with 
the  suddenness  of  a  blow,  by  a  voice  speaking,  it  seemed, 
within  a  foot  of  his  head. 

"  Well,  we  have  those  rats,  at  any  rate." 

(He  perceived  instantly  what  had  happened.  The  men 
were  back  again  in  the  chapel,  and  he  had  not  heard  them 


398  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

come.  He  supposed  that  he  could  hear  the  words  now, 
because  of  the  breaking  of  the  panel  next  to  his  own.) 

"  Ralph  said  he  was  sure  of  the  other  one,  too,"  said  a 
second  voice. 

"  Which  was  that  one  ?  " 

"  The  fellow  that  was  at  Fotheringay." 

(Robin  clenched  his  teeth  like  iron.) 

"  Well,  he  is  not  here." 

There  was  silence. 

"  I  have  sounded  that  side,"  said  the  first  voice  sharply. 

"  Well,  but " 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  sounded  it.  There  is  no  time  to  be 
lost.  My  lord " 

"  Hark !  "  said  the  second  voice.  "  There  is  my  lord's 
man " 

There  followed  a  movement  of  feet  towards  the  door,  as 
it  seemed  to  the  priest. 

He  could  hear  the  first  man  grumbling  to  himself,  and 
beating  listlessly  on  the  walls  somewhere.  Then  a  voice 
called  something  unintelligible  from  the  direction  of  the 
stairs;  the  beating  ceased,  and  footsteps  went  across  the 
floor  again  into  silence. 

VI 

He  was  dazed  and  blinded  by  the  light  when,  after  in- 
finite hours,  he  drew  the  bolts  and  slid  the  panel  open. 

He  had  lost  all  idea  of  time  utterly:  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  should  find  that  night  had  come,  or  that  the 
next  day  had  dawned.  He  had  waited  there,  period  after 
period;  he  marked  one  of  them  by  eating  food  that  had  no 
taste  and  drinking  liquid  that  stung  his  throat  but  did  not 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  399 

affect  his  palate;  he  had  marked  another  by  saying  com- 
pline to  himself  in  a  whisper. 

During  the  earlier  part  of  those  periods  he  had  followed 
— he  thought  with  success — the  dreadful  drama  that  was 
acted  in  the  house.  Someone  had  made  a  formal  inspection 
of  all  the  chambers — a  man  who  said  little  and  moved 
heavily  with  something  of  a  limp  (he  had  thought  this  to 
be  my  lord  Shrewsbury  himself,  who  suffered  from  the 
gout)  :  this  man  had  walked  slowly  through  the  chapel  and 
out  again. 

At  a  later  period  he  had  heard  the  horses  being  brought 
round  the  house;  heard  plainly  the  jingle  of  the  bits  and 
a  sneeze  or  two.  This  had  been  followed  by  long  inter- 
minable talking,  muffled  and  indistinguishable,  that  came 
up  to  him  from  some  unknown  direction.  Voices  changed 
curiously  in  loudness  and  articulation  as  the  speakers  moved 
about. 

At  a  later  period  a  loud  trampling  had  begun  again, 
plainly  from  the  hall:  he  had  interpreted  this  to  mean  that 
the  prisoners  were  being  removed  out  of  doors ;  and  he  had 
been  confirmed  in  this  by  hearing  immediately  after- 
wards again  the  stamping  of  horses  and  the  creaking  of 
leather. 

Again  there  had  been  a  pause,  broken  suddenly  by  loud 
women's  wailing.  And  at  last  the  noise  of  horses  moving 
off ;  the  noise  grew  less ;  a  man  ran  suddenly  through  the 
archway  and  out  again,  and,  little  by  little,  complete  silence 
once  more. 

Yet  he  had  not  dared  to  move.  It  was  the  custom,  he 
knew,  sometimes  to  leave  three  or  four  men  on  guard  for  a 
day  or  two  after  such  an  assault,  in  the  hope  of  starving 
out  any  hidden  fugitives  that  might  still  be  left.  So  he 
waited  again — period  after  period ;  he  dozed  a  little  for 
weariness,  propped  against  the  narrow  walls  of  his  hiding- 


400  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

hole;  woke;  felt  again  for  food  and  found  he  had  eaten  it 
all  ...  dozed  again. 

Then  he  had  started  up  suddenly,  for  without  any  further 
warning  there  had  come  a  tiny  indeterminate  tapping 
against  his  panel.  He  held  his  breath  and  listened.  It 
came  again.  Then  fearlessly  he  drew  back  the  bolts,  slid 
the  panel  open  and  shut  his  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  light. 

He  crawled  out  at  last,  spent  and  dusty.  There  was 
looking  at  him  only  the  little  red-eyed  maid  whom  he  had 
tried  to  comfort  at  some  far-off  hour  in  his  life.  Her 
face  was  all  contorted  with  weeping,  and  she  had  a  great 
smear  of  dust  across  it. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  ...  it  is  after  two  o'clock/'  she  whispered. 

"They  have  all  gone?" 

She  nodded,  speechless. 

"  Whom  have  they  taken  ?  " 

"  Mr.  FitzHerbert  .  .  .  the   priests  .  .  .  the  servants." 

"Mr.  FitzHerbert?     They  found  him,  then?" 

She  stared  at  him  with  the  dull  incapacity  to  understand 
why  he  did  not  know  all  that  she  had  seen. 

"Where  did  they  find  him?"  he  repeated  sharply. 

"  The  master  ...  he  opened  the  door  to  them  himself.'* 

Her  face  writhed  itself  again  into  grotesque  lines,  and 
she  broke  out  into  shrill  wailing  and  weeping. 


CHAPTER  IV 


MARJORIE  was  still  in  bed  when  the  news  was  brought  her 
by  her  friend.  She  did  not  move  or  speak  when  Mistress 
Alice  said  shortly  that  Mr.  FitzHerbert  had  been  taken 
with  ten  of  his  servants  and  two  priests. 

"  You  understand,  my  dear.  .  .  .  They  have  ridden  away 
to  Derby,  all  of  them  together.  But  they  may  come  back 
here  suddenly." 

Marjorie  nodded. 

"  Mr.  Garlick  and  Mr.  Ludlam  were  in  the  chimney- 
hole  of  the  hall,"  whispered  Mistress  Alice,  glancing  fear- 
fully behind  her. 

Marjorie  lay  back  again  on  her  pillows. 

"  And  what  of  Mr.  Alban?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Alban  was  upstairs.  They  missed  him.  He  is 
coming  here  after  dark,  the  maid  says." 

An  hour  after  supper-time  the  priest  came  quietly  up- 
stairs to  the  parlour.  He  showed  no  signs  of  his  experi- 
ence, except  perhaps  by  a  certain  brightness  in  his  eyes 
and  an  extreme  self- repression  of  manner.  Marjorie  was 
up  to  meet  him ;  and  had  in  her  hands  a  paper.  She  hardly 
spoke  a  single  expression  of  relief  at  his  safety.  She  was 
as  quiet  and  business-like  as  ever. 

"  You  must  lie  here  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Janet  hath 
your  room  ready.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  you  must 
ride:  here  is  a  map  of  your  journey.  They  may  come  back 
suddenly.  At  the  place  I  have  marked  here  with  red  there 
is  a  shepherd's  hut;  you  cannot  miss  it  if  you  follow  the 

401 


402  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

track  I  have  marked.  There  will  be  meat  and  drink  there. 
At  night  the  shepherd  will  come  from  the  westwards ;  he  is 
called  David,  and  you  may  trust  him.  You  must  lie  there 
two  weeks  at  least." 

"  I  must  have  news  of  the  other  priests,"  he  said. 

Marjorie  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  will  send  a  letter  to  you  by  Dick  Sampson  at  the  end 
of  two  weeks.  Until  that  I  can  promise  nothing.  They 
may  have  spies  round  the  house  by  this  time  to-morrow,  or 
even  earlier.  And  I  will  send  in  that  letter  any  news  I 
can  get  from  Derby." 

"  How  shall  I  find  my  way  ?  "  asked  Robin. 

"  Until  it  is  light  you  will  be  on  ground  that  you  know." 
(She  flushed  slightly.)  "  Do  you  remember  the  hawking, 
that  time  after  Christmas?  It  is  all  across  that  ground. 
When  daylight  comes  you  can  follow  this  map."  (She 
named  one  or  two  landmarks,  pointing  to  them  on  the  map.) 
"  You  must  have  no  lantern." 

They  talked  a  few  minutes  longer  as  to  the  way  he  must 
go  and  the  provision  that  would  be  ready  for  him.  He 
must  take  no  mass  requisites  with  him.  David  had  made 
that  a  condition.  Then  Robin  suddenly  changed  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  Had  my  father  any  hand  in  this  affair  at  Padley  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  he  had  not." 

"  They  will  execute  Mr.  Garlick  and  Mr.  Ludlam,  will 
they  not  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head  in  assent. 

"  The  Summer  Assizes  open  on  the  eighteenth,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  no  doubt  as  to  how  all  will  go." 

Robin  rose. 

"  It  is  time  I  were  in  bed,"  he  said,  "  if  I  must  ride  at 
one." 

The  two  women  knelt  for  his  blessing. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  403 

At  one  o'clock  Marjorie  heard  the  horse  brought  round. 
She  stepped  softly  to  the  window,  knowing  herself  to  be 
invisible,  and  peeped  out. 

All  was  as  she  had  ordered.  There  was  no  light  of  any 
kind:  she  could  make  out  but  dimly  in  the  summer  dark- 
ness the  two  figures  of  horse  and  groom.  As  she  looked,  a 
third  figure  appeared  beneath;  but  there  was  no  word 
spoken  that  she  could  hear.  This  third  figure  mounted. 
She  caught  her  breath  as  she  heard  the  horse  scurry  a  little 
with  freshness,  since  every  sound  seemed  full  of  peril. 
Then  the  mounted  figure  faded  one  way  into  the  dark,  and 
the  groom  another. 

II 

It  was  two  weeks  to  the  day  that  Robin  received  his 
letter. 

He  had  never  before  been  so  lopg  in  utter  solitude;  for 
the  visits  of  David  did  not  break  it;  and,  for  other  men,  he 
saw  none  except  a  hog-herd  or  two  in  the  distance  once  or 
twice.  The  shepherd  came  but  once  a  day,  carrying  a 
great  jug  and  a  parcel  of  food,  and  set  them  down  without 
the  hut;  he  seemed  to  avoid  even  looking  within;  but 
merely  took  the  empty  jug  of  the  day  before  and  went 
away  again.  He  was  an  old,  bent  man,  with  a  face  like  a 
limestone  cliff,  grey  and  weather-beaten;  he  lived  half  the 
year  up  here  in  the  wild  Peak  country,  caring  for  a  few 
sheep,  and  going  down  to  the  village  not  more  than  once  or 
twice  a  week.  There  was  a  little  spring  welling  up  in  a 
hollow  not  fifty  yards  away  from  the  hut,  which  itself  stood 
in  a  deep,  natural  rift  among  the  high  hills,  so  that  men 
might  search  for  it  a  lifetime  and  not  come  across  it. 

Robin's  daily  round  was  very  simple.  He  had  leave  to 
make  a  fire  by  day,  but  he  must  extinguish  it  at  ni<jht  lest 


404  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

its  glow  should  be  seen,  so  he  began  his  morning  by  mixing 
a  little  oatmeal,  and  then  preparing  his  dinner.  About 
noon,  so  near  as  he  could  j  udge  by  the  sun,  he  dined ;  some- 
times off  a  partridge  or  rabbit;  on  Fridays  off  half  a  dozen 
tiny  trout;  and  set  aside  part  of  the  cold  food  for  supper; 
he  had  one  good  loaf  of  nearly  black  bread  every  day, 
and  the  single  jug  of  small  beer. 

The  greater  part  of  the  day  he  spent  within  the  hut,  for 
safety's  sake,  sleeping  a  little,  and  thinking  a  good  deal. 
He  had  no  books  with  him ;  even  his  breviary  had  been  for- 
bidden, since  David,  as  a  shrewd  man,  had  made  condi- 
tions, first  that  he  should  not  have  to  speak  with  any  refu- 
gee, second,  that  if  the  man  were  a  priest  he  should  have 
nothing  about  him  that  could  prove  him  to  be  so.  Mr. 
Maine's  beads,  only,  had  been  permitted,  on  condition  that 
they  were  hidden  always  beneath  a  stone  outside  the  hut. 

After  nightfall  Robin  went  out  to  attend  to  his  horse 
that  was  tethered  in  the  next  ravine,  over  a  crag;  to  shift 
his  peg  and  bring  him  a  good  armful  of  cut  grass  and  a 
bucket  of  water.  (The  saddle  and  bridle  were  hidden  be- 
neath a  couple  of  great  stones  that  leaned  together  not 
far  away.)  After  doing  what  was  necessary  for  his  horse, 
he  went  to  draw  water  for  himself;  and  then  took  his 
exercise,  avoiding  carefully,  according  to  instructions,  every 
possible  skyline.  And  it  was  then,  for  the  most  part, 
that  he  did  his  clear  thinking.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  fancy  him- 
self in  a  fortnight's  retreat,  such  as  he  had  had  at  Rheims 
before  his  reception  of  orders. 

The  evening  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  July  closed  in  stormy ; 
and  Robin,  in  an  old  cloak  he  had  found  placed  in  the  hut 
for  his  own  use,  made  haste  to  attend  to  what  was  neces- 
sary, and  hurried  back  as  quickly  as  he  could.  He  sat  a 
while,  listening  to  the  thresh  of  the  rain  and  the  cry  of 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  405 

the  wind ;  f or,  up  here  in  the  high  land  the  full  storm  broke 
on  him.  (The  hut  was  wattled  of  osiers  and  clay,  and  kept 
out  the  wet  tolerably  well.) 

He  could  see  nothing  from  the  door  of  his  hut  except  the 
dim  outline  of  the  nearer  crag  thirty  or  forty  yards  off; 
and  he  went  presently  to  bed. 

He  awoke  suddenly,  wide  awake — as  is  easy  for  a  man 
who  is  sleeping  in  continual  expectation  of  an  alarm — at 
the  flash  of  light  in  his  eyes.  But  he  was  at  once  reassured 
by  Dick's  voice. 

"  I  have  come,  sir;  and  I  have  brought  the  mistress' 
letter." 

Robin  sat  up  and  took  the  packet.  He  saw  now  that  the 
man  carried  a  little  lantern  with  a  slide  over  it  that  allowed 
only  a  thin  funnel  of  light  to  escape  that  could  be  shut  off 
in  an  instant. 

"  All  well,  Dick  ?     I  did  not  hear  you  coming." 

"  The  storm's  too  loud,  sir." 

"All  well?" 

"  Mistress  Manners  thinks  you  had  best  stay  here  a  week 
longer,  sir." 

"  And  .  .  .  and  the  news  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  in  the  letter,  sir." 

Robin  looked  for  the  inscription,  but  there  was  none. 
Then  he  broke  the  two  seals,  opened  the  paper  and  began 
to  read.  For  the  next  five  minutes  there  was  no  sound, 
except  the  thresh  of  the  rain  and  the  cry  of  the  wind.  The 
letter  ran  as  follows: 


III 

"  Three  more  have  glorified  God  to-day  by  a  good  con- 
fession—Mr. Garlick,  Mr.  Ludlam  and  Mr.  Simpson.    That 


506  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

is  the  summary.  The  tale  in  detail  hath  been  brought  to 
me  to-day  by  an  eye-witness. 

"  The  trial  went  as  all  thought  it  would.  There  was 
never  the  least  question  of  it;  for  not  only  were  the  two 
priests  taken  with  signs  of  their  calling  upon  them,  but 
both  of  them  had  been  in  the  hands  of  the  magistrates  be- 
fore. There  was  no  shrinking  nor  fear  showed  of  any  kind. 
But  the  chief  marvel  was  that  these  two  priests  met  with 
Mr.  Simpson  in  the  gaol;  they  put  them  together  in  one 
room,  I  think,  hoping  that  Mr.  Simpson  would  prevail  upon 
them  to  do  as  he  had  promised  to  do;  but,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  it  was  all  the  other  way,  and  it  was  they  who  pre- 
vailed upon  Mr.  Simpson  to  confess  himself  again  openly 
as  a  Catholic.  This  greatly  enraged  my  lord  Shrewsbury 
and  the  rest;  so  that  there  was  less  hope  than  ever  of  any 
respite,  and  sentence  was  passed  upon  them  all  together, 
Mr.  Simpson  showing,  at  the  reading  of  it,  as  much  cour- 
age as  any.  This  was  all  done  two  days  ago  at  the  Assizes ; 
and  it  was  to-day  that  the  sentence  was  carried  out. 

"  They  were  all  three  drawn  on  hurdles  together  to  the 
open  space  by  St.  Mary's  Bridge,  where  all  was  prepared, 
with  gallows  and  cauldron  and  butchering  block;  and  a 
great  company  went  after  them.  I  have  not  heard  that 
they  spoke  much  on  the  way,  except  that  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Garlick's  cried  out  to  him  to  remember  that  they  had  often 
shot  off  together  on  the  moors ;  to  which  Mr.  Garlick  made 
answer  merrily  that  it  was  true;  but  that  '  I  am  now  to 
shoot  off  such  a  shot  as  I  never  shot  in  all  my  life.'  He 
was  merry  at  the  trial,  too,  I  hear ;  and  said  that  '  he  was 
not  come  to  seduce  men,  but  rather  to  induce  them  to  the 
Catholic  religion,  that  to  this  end  he  had  come  to  the  coun- 
try, and  for  this  that  he  would  work  so  long  as  he  lived.' 
And  this  he  did  on  the  scaffold,  speaking  to  the  crowd 
about  him  of  the  salvation  of  their  souls,  and  casting  papers, 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  407 

which  he  had  written  in  prison,  in  proof  of  the  Catholic 
faith. 

"  Mr.  Garlick  went  up  the  ladder  first,  kissing  and  em- 
bracing it  as  the  instrument  of  his  death,  and  to  encourage 
Mr.  Simpson,  as  it  was  thought,  since  some  said  he  showed 
signs  of  timorousness  again  when  he  came  to  the  place. 
But  he  showed  none  when  his  turn  came,  but  rather  ex- 
hibited the  same  courage  as  them  both.  Mr.  Ludlam  stood 
by  smiling  while  all  was  done;  and  smiling  still  when  his 
turn  came.  His  last  words  were,  '  Fenite  benedicti  Dei ' ; 
and  this  he  said,  seeming  to  see  a  vision  of  angels  come  to 
bear  his  soul  away. 

"  They  were  cut  down,  all  three  of  them,  before  they 
were  dead;  and  the  butchery  done  on  them  according  to 
sentence;  yet  none  of  them  cried  out  or  made  the  least 
sound;  and  their  heads  and  quarters  were  set  up  imme- 
diately afterwards  on  poles  in  divers  places  of  Derby; 
some  of  them  above  the  house  that  stands  on  the  bridge 
and  others  on  the  bridge  itself.  But  these,  I  hear,  will 
not  be  there  long. 

"  So  these  three  have  kept  the  faith  and  finished  their 
course  with  joy.  Laus  Deo.  Mr.  John  is  in  ward,  for 
harbouring  of  the  priests;  but  nothing  hath  been  done  to 
him  yet. 

"  As  for  your  reverence,  I  am  of  opinion  that  you  had 
best  wait  another  week  where  you  are.  There  has  been 
a  man  or  two  seen  hereabouts  whom  none  knew,  as  well  as 
at  Padley.  It  hath  been  certified,  too,  that  Mr.  Thomas 
was  at  the  root  of  it  all,  that  he  gave  the  information  that 
Mr.  John  and  at  least  a  priest  or  two  would  be  at  Padley 
at  that  time,  though  no  man  knows  how  he  knew  it,  unless 
through  servants'  talk;  and  since  Mr.  Thomas  knows  your 
reverence,  it  will  be  better  to  be  hid  for  a  little  longer. 
So,  if  you  will,  in  a  week  from  now,  I  will  send  Dick  once 


408  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

again  to  tell  you  if  all  be  well.  I  look  for  no  letter  back 
for  this  since  you  have  nothing  to  write  with  in  the  hut, 
as  I  know;  but  Dick  will  tell  me  how  you  do;  as  well  as 
anything  you  may  choose  to  say  to  him. 

"  I  ask  your  reverence's  blessing  again.  I  do  not  forget 
your  reverence  in  my  poor  prayers." 

And  so  it  ended,  without  signature — for  safety's  sake. 

IV 

Robin  looked  up  when  he  had  finished  to  where  the  faint 
outline  of  the  servant  could  be  seen  behind  the  lantern, 
against  the  greater  darkness  of  the  wall. 

"  You  know  of  all  that  has  fallen  at  Derby?"  he  said, 
with  some  difficulty. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  pray  God  we  may  be  willing,  too,  if  He  bids  us 
to  it." 

"  Yes,  sir."  .  .  . 

"  You  had  best  lose  no  time  if  you  are  to  be  home  before 
dawn.  Say  to  Mistress  Manners  that  I  thank  her  for  her 
letter;  that  I  praise  God  for  the  graces  she  relates  in  it4, 
and  that  I  will  do  as  she  bids.  .  .  .  Dick." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  Mr.  Audrey  in  any  of  this  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir.  ...  I  heard "  The  man's 

voice  hesitated. 

"What  did  you  hear?" 

"  I  heard  that  my  lord  Shrewsbury  wondered  at  his  ab- 
sence from  the  trial;  and  .  .  .  and  that  a  message  would 
be  sent  to  Mr.  Audrey  to  look  to  it  to  be  more  zealous  on 
her  Grace's  commission." 

"  That  was  all?  " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  409 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  you  had  best  be  gone.  There  is  no  more  to  be 
said.  Bring  me  what  news  you  can  when  you  come  again. 
Good-night,  Dick." 

"  Good-night,  sir.  .  .  .  God  bless  your  reverence." 

An  hour  later,  with  the  first  coming  of  the  dawn,  the 
storm  ceased.  (It  was  that  same  storm,  if  he  had  only  known 
it,  that  had  blown  upon  the  Spanish  Fleet  at  sea  and  driven 
it  towards  destruction.  But  of  this  he  knew  nothing.)  He 
had  not  slept  since  Dick  had  gone,  but  had  lain  on  his  back 
on  the  turfed  and  blanketed  bed  in  the  corner,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  thinking,  thinking  and  re-thinking 
all  that  he  had  read  just  now.  He  had  known  it  must 
happen;  but  there  seemed  to  him  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  between  an  event  and  its  mere  certainty.  .  .  .  The 
thing  was  done — out  to  every  bitter  detail  of  the  loathsome, 
agonizing  death — and  it  had  been  two  of  the  men  whom  he 
had  seen  say  mass  after  himself — the  ruddy-faced,  breezy 
countryman,  yet  anointed  with  the  sealing  oil,  and  the  gen- 
tle, studious,  smiling  man  who  had  been  no  less  vigorous 
than  his  friend.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  one  thing  he  had  not  known,  and  that,  the 
recovery  of  the  faint  heart  which  they  had  inspirited.  And 
then,  in  an  instant  he  remembered  how  he  had  seen  the 
three,  years  ago,  against  the  sunset,  as  he  rode  with  An- 
thony. .  .  . 

His  mind  was  full  of  the  strange  memory  as  he  came  out 
at  last,  when  the  black  darkness  began  to  fade  to  grey, 
and  the  noise  of  the  rain  on  the  roof  had  ceased,  and  the 
wind  had  fallen. 

It  was  a  view  of  extraordinary  solemnity  that  he  looked 
on,  as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  rough  door-post.  The 


410  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

night  was  still  stronger  than  day;  overhead  it  was  as  black 
as  ever,  and  stars  shone  in  it  through  the  dissolving  clouds 
that  were  passing  at  last.  But,  immediately  over  the  grim, 
serrated  edge  of  the  crag  that  faced  him  to  the  east,  a 
faint  and  tender  light  was  beginning  to  burn,  so  faint  that, 
as  yet  it  seemed  an  absence  of  black  rather  than  as  of  a 
colour  itself;  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  like  a  crumb  of  dia- 
mond, shone  a  single  dying  star.  This  high  land  was  as 
still  now  as  a  sheltered  valley,  a  tuft  of  springy  grass  stood 
out  on  the  crag  as  stiff  as  a  thin  plume;  and  the  silence,  as 
at  Padley  two  weeks  ago,  was  marked  rather  than  broken 
by  the  tinkle  of  water  from  his  spring  fifty  yards  away. 
The  air  was  cold  and  fresh  and  marvellously  scented,  after 
the  rain,  with  the  clean  smell  of  strong  turf  and  rushes. 
It  was  as  different  from  the  peace  he  had  had  at  Padley  as 
water  is  different  from  wine;  yet  it  was  Peace,  too,  a  con- 
fident and  expectant  peace  that  precedes  the  battle,  rather 
than  the  rest  which  follows  it.  ... 

How  was  it  he  had  seen  the  three  men  on  the  moor;  as 
he  turned  with  Anthony?  They  were  against  the  crimson 
west,  as  against  a  glory,  the  two  laymen  on  either  side, 
the  young  priest  in  the  middle.  .  .  .  They  had  seemed  to 
bear  him  up  and  support  him ;  the  colour  of  the  sky  was  as 
a  stain  of  blood;  and  their  shadows  had  stretched  to  his 
own  feet.  .  .  . 

And  there  came  on  him  in  that  hour  one  of  those  vast 
experiences  that  can  never  be  told,  when  a  flood  rises  in 
earth  and  air  that  turns  them  all  to  wine,  that  wells  up 
through  tired  limbs,  and  puzzled  brain  and  beating  heart, 
and  soothes  and  enkindles,  all  in  one;  when  it  is  not  a 
mere  vision  of  peace  that  draws  the  eyes  up  in  an  ecstasy  of 
sight,  but  a  bathing  in  it,  and  an  envelopment  in  it,  of  every 
fibre  of  life;  when  the  lungs  draw  deep  breaths  of  it;  and 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  411 

the  heart  beats  in  it,  and  the  eyes  are  enlightened  by  it; 
when  the  things  of  earth  become  at  once  eternal  and  fixed 
and  of  infinite  value,  and  at  the  same  instant  of  less  value 
than  the  dust  that  floats  in  space;  when  there  no  longer 
appears  any  distinction  between  the  finite  and  the  eternal, 
between  time  and  infinity;  when  the  soul  for  that  moment 
at  least  finds  that  rest  that  is  the  magnet  and  the  end  of 
all  human  striving;  and  that  comfort  which  wipes  away 
all  tears. 


CHAPTER  V 


IT  was  the  sixth  night  after  Dick  Sampson  had  come  back 
with  news  of  Mr.  Alban;  and  he  had  already  received  in- 
structions as  to  how  he  was  to  go  twenty-four  hours  later. 
He  was  to  walk,  as  before,  starting  after  dark,  not  carry- 
ing a  letter  this  time,  after  all,  in  spite  of  the  news  that 
he  might  have  taken  with  him ;  for  the  priest  would  be  back 
before  morning  and  could  hear  it  all  then  at  his  ease. 

Every  possible  cause  of  alarm  had  gone;  and  Marjorie, 
for  the  first  time  for  three  weeks,  felt  very  nearly  as  con- 
tent as  a  year  ago.  Not  one  more  doubtful  visitor  had  ap- 
peared anywhere;  and  now  she  thought  herself  mistaken 
even  about  those  solitary  figures  she  had  suspected  before. 
After  all,  they  had  only  been  a  couple  of  men,  whose  faces 
her  servants  did  not  know,  who  had  gone  past  on  the  track 
beneath  the  house;  one  mounted,  and  the  other  on  foot. 

There  had  been  something  of  a  reaction,  too,  in  Derby. 
The  deaths  of  the  three  priests  had  made  an  impression; 
there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  Mr.  Biddell  had  written  her 
a  letter  on  the  point,  saying  that  the  blood  of  those  martyrs 
might  well  be  the  peace,  if  it  might  not  be  the  seed,  of  the 
Church  in  the  district.  Men  openly  said  in  the  taverns, 
he  reported,  that  it  was  hard  that  any  should  die  for  re- 
ligion merely;  politics  were  one  matter  and  religion  an- 
other. Yet  the  deaths  had  dismayed  the  simple  Catholics, 
too,  for  the  present ;  and  at  Hathersage  church,  scarcely  ten 
miles  away,  above  two  hundred  came  to  the  Protestant  ser- 
mon preached  before  my  lord  Shrewsbury  on  the  first  Sun- 
day after. 

413 


.      COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  413 

The  news  of  the  Armada,  too,  had  distracted  men's  minds 
Wonderfully  in  another  direction.  News  had  come  in  al- 
ready, she  was  informed,  of  an  engagement  or  two  in  the 
English  Channel,  all  in  favour  of  its  defenders.  More  than 
that  was  not  known.  But  the  beacons  had  blazed;  and  the 
market-place  of  Derby  had  echoed  with  the  tramp  of  the 
train-bands;  and  it  was  not  likely  that  at  such  a  time  the 
attention  of  the  magistrates  would  be  given  to  anything 
else. 

So  her  plans  were  laid.  Mr.  Alban  was  to  come  here  for 
three  or  four  days ;  be  provided  with  a  complete  change  of 
clothes  (all  of  which  she  had  ready);  shave  off  his  beard; 
and  then  set  out  again  for  the  border.  He  had  best  go  to 
Staffordshire,  she  thought,  for  a  month  or  two,  before  be- 
ginning once  more  in  his  own  county. 

She  went  to  bed  that  night,  happy  enough,  in  spite  of 
the  cause,  which  she  loved  so  much,  seeming  to  fail  every- 
where. It  was  true  that,  under  this  last  catastrophe,  great 
numbers  had  succumbed;  but  she  hoped  that  this  would  be 
but  for  a  time.  Let  but  a  few  more  priests  come  from 
Rheims  to  join  the  company  that  had  lost  so  heavily,  and  all 
would  be  well  again.  So  she  said  to  herself:  she  did  not 
allow  even  in  her  own  soul  that  the  security  of  her  friend 
and  the  thought  that  he  would  be  with  her  in  a  day  or  two, 
had  any  great  part  in  her  satisfaction. 

She  awaked  suddenly.  At  the  moment  she  did  not  know 
what  time  it  was  or  how  long  she  had  slept ;  but  it  was  still 
dark  and  deathly  still.  Yet  she  could  have  sworn  that  she 
had  heard  her  name  called.  The  rushlight  was  burned 
out;  but  in  the  summer  night  she  could  still  make  out  the 
outline  of  Mistress  Alice's  bed.  Yet  all  was  still  there, 
except  for  the  gentle  breathing:  it  could  not  have  been 


414  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

she  who  had  called  out  in  her  sleep,  or  she  would  surely 
show  some  signs  of  restlessness. 

She  sat  up  listening;  but  there  was  not  a  sound.  She 
lay  down  again;  and  the  strange  fancy  seized  her  that  it 
had  been  her  mother's  voice  that  she  had  heard.  ...  It 
was  in  this  room  that  her  mother  had  died.  .  .  .  Again  she 
sat  up  and  looked  round.  All  was  quiet  as  before:  the  tall 
press  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  glimmered  here  and  there  with 
lines  and  points  of  starlight. 

Then,  as  again  she  began  to  lie  down,  there  came  the 
signal  for  which  her  heart  was  expectant,  though  her  mind 
knew  nothing  of  its  coming.  It  was  a  clear  rap,  as  of  a 
pebble  against  the  glass. 

She  was  up  and  out  of  bed  in  a  moment,  and  was  peering 
out  under  the  thick  arch  of  the  little  window.  And  a 
figure  stood  there,  bending,  it  seemed,  for  another  pebble; 
in  the  very  place  where  she  had  seen  it,  she  thought,  nearly 
three  weeks  ago,  standing  ready  to  mount  a  horse. 

Then  she  was  at  Alice's  bedside. 

"Alice,"  she  whispered.  "  Alice !  Wake  up.  .  .  .  There 
is  someone  come.  You  must  come  with  me.  I  do  not 

know "  Her  voice  faltered:  she  knew  that  she  knew, 

and  fear  clutched  her  by  the  throat. 

The  porter  was  fast  asleep,  and  did  not  move,  as  carry- 
ing a  rushlight  she  went  past  the  buttery  with  her  friend 
behind  her  saying  no  word.  The  bolts  were  well  oiled,  and 
came  back  with  scarcely  a  sound.  Then  as  the  door  swung 
slowly  back  a  figure  slipped  in. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  I.  ...  I  think  I  am  followed.  .  .  . 
I  have  but  come " 

"  Come  in  quickly,"  she  said,  and  closed  and  bolted  the 
door  once  more. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  415 

II 

It  was  a  horrible  delight  to  sit,  wrapped  in  her  cloak 
with  the  hood  over  her  head,  listening  to  his  story  in  the 
hall,  and  to  know  that  it  was  to  her  house  that  he  had  come 
for  safety.  It  was  horrible  to  her  that  he  needed  it — so 
horrible  that  every  shred  of  interior  peace  had  left  her; 
she  was  composed  only  in  her  speech,  and  it  was  a  strange 
delight  that  he  had  come  so  simply.  He  sat  there;  she 
could  see  his  outline  and  the  pallor  of  his  face  under  his 
hat,  and  his  voice  was  perfectly  resolute  and  quiet.  This 
was  his  tale. 

"  Twice  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  "  I  saw  a  man  against 
the  sky,  opposite  my  hut.  It  was  the  same  man  both  times ; 
he  was  not  a  shepherd  or  a  farmer's  man.  The  night  be- 
fore, when  David  came,  he  did  not  speak  to  me;  but  for 
the  first  time  he  put  his  head  in  at  the  hut-door  when  he 
brought  the  food  and  made  gestures  that  I  could  not  under- 
stand. I  looked  at  him  and  shook  my  head,  but  he  would 
say  nothing,  and  I  remembered  the  bond  and  said  nothing 
myself.  All  that  he  would  do  was  to  shut  his  eyes  and 
wave  his  hands.  Then  this  last  night  he  brought  no  food 
at  all. 

"  I  was  uneasy  at  the  sight  of  the  man,  too,  in  the  after- 
noon. I  think  he  thought  that  I  was  asleep;  for  when  I 
saw  him  for  the  first  time  I  was  lying  down  and  looking 
at  the  crag  opposite.  And  I  saw  him  raise  himself  on  his 
hands  against  the  sky,  as  if  he  had  been  lying  flat  on  his 
face  in  the  heather.  I  looked  at  him  for  a  while,  and  then 
I  flung  my  hand  out  of  bed  suddenly,  and  he  was  gone  in 
a  whisk.  I  went  to  the  door  after  a  time,  stretching  my- 
self as  if  I  were  just  awakened,  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  him. 

"  About  an  hour  before  sunset  I  was  watching  again. 


416  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

and  I  saw,  on  a  sudden,  a  covey  of  birds  rise  suddenly 
about  two  hundred  yards  away  to  the  north  of  the  hut — 
that  is,  by  the  way  that  I  should  have  to  go  down  to  the 
valleys  again.  They  rose  as  if  they  were  frightened.  I 
kept  my  eyes  on  the  place,  and  presently  I  saw  a  man's 
hat  moving  very  slowly.  It  was  the  movement  of  a  man 
crawling  on  his  hands,  drawing  his  legs  after  him. 

"  Then  I  waited  for  David  to  come,  but  he  did  not  come^, 
and  I  determined  then  to  make  my  way  down  here  as  well 
as  I  could  after  dark.  If  there  were  any  fellows  after  me, 
I  should  have  a  better  chance  of  escape  than  if  I  stayed  in 
the  hut,  I  thought,  until  they  could  fetch  up  the  rest;  and, 
if  not,  I  could  lose  nothing  by  coming  a  day  too  soon." 

"  But "  began  the  girl  eagerly. 

"  Wait,"  said  Robin  quietly.  "  That  is  not  all.  I  made 
very  poor  way  on  foot  (for  I  thought  it  better  to  come 
quietly  than  on  a  horse),  and  I  went  round  about  again  and 
again  in  the  precipitous  ground  so  that,  if  there  were  any 
after  me,  they  could  not  tell  which  way  I  meant  to  go. 
For  about  two  hours  I  heard  and  saw  nothing  of  any  man, 
and  I  began  to  think  I  was  a  fool  for  all  my  pains.  So  I 
sat  down  a  good  while  and  rested,  and  even  thought  that 
I  would  go  back  again.  But  just  as  I  was  about  to  get  up 
again  I  heard  a  stone  fall  a  great  way  behind  me :  it  was  on 
some  rocky  ground  about  two  hundred  yards  away.  The 
night  was  quite  still,  and  I  could  hear  the  stone  very 
plainly.  ...  It  was  I  that  crawled  then,  further  down  the 
hill,  and  it  was  then  that  I  saw  once  more  a  man's  head 
move  against  the  stars. 

"  I  went  straight  on  then,  as  quietly  as  I  could.  I  made 
sure  that  it  was  but  one  that  was  after  me,  and  that  he 
would  not  try  to  take  me  by  himself,  and  I  saw  no  more 
of  him  till  I  came  down  near  Padley " 

"Near  Padley?     Why " 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  417 

"  I  meant  to  go  there  first/'  said  the  priest,  "  and  lie 
there  till  morning.  But  as  I  came  down  the  hill  I  heard 
the  steps  of  him  again  a  great  way  off.  So  I  turned  sharp 
into  a  little  broken  ground  that  lies  there,  and  hid  myself 
among  the  rocks " 

Mistress  Alice  lifted  her  hand  suddenly. 

"  Hark !  "  she  whispered. 

Then  as  the  three  sat  motionless,  there  came,  distinct 
and  clear,  from  a  little  distance  down  the  hill,  the  noise  of 
two  or  three  horses  walking  over  stony  ground. 


Ill 

For  one  deathly  instant  the  two  sat  looking  each  into 
the  other's  white  face — since  even  the  priest  changed  colour 
at  the  sound.  (While  they  had  talked  the  dawn  had  begun 
to  glimmer,  and  the  windows  showed  grey  and  ghostly  on 
the  thin  morning  mist.)  Then  they  rose  together.  Mar- 
jorie  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  must  come  upstairs  at  once,"  she  said.  "  All  is 
ready  there,  as  you  know." 

The  priest's  lips  moved  without  speaking.  Then  he  said 
suddenly : 

"  I  had  best  be  off  the  back  way;  that  is,  if  it  is  what  I 
think " 

"  The  house  will  be  surrounded." 

"  But  you  will  have  harboured  me " 

Marjorie's  lips  opened  in  a  smile. 

"  I  have  done  that  in  any  case,"  she  said.  She  caught 
up  the  candle  and  blew  it  out,  as  she  went  towards  the 
door. 

"  Come  quickly,"  she  said. 

At  the  door  Janet  met  them.     Her  old  face  was  all  dis- 


418  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

traught  with  fear.  She  had  that  moment  run  downstairs 
again  on  hearing  the  noise.  Marjorie  silenced  her  by  a 
gesture.  .  .  . 

The  young  carpenter  had  done  his  work  excellently,  and 
Marjorie  had  taken  care  that  there  had  been  no  neglect 
since  the  work  had  been  done.  Yet  so  short  was  the  time 
since  the  hearing  of  the  horses'  feet,  that  as  the  girl  slipped 
out  of  the  press  again  after  drawing  back  the  secret  door, 
there  came  the  loud  knocking  beneath,  for  which  they  had 
waited  with  such  agony. 

"  Quick !  "  she  said,  .  .  . 

From  within,  as  she  waited,  came  the  priest's  whisper. 

"  Is  this  to  be  pushed ?  " 

"  Yes ;  yes." 

There  was  the  sound  of  sliding  wood  and  a  little  snap. 
Then  she  closed  the  doors  of  the  press  again. 

IV 

Mr.  Audrey  outside  grew  indignant,  and  the  more  so 
since  he  was  unhappy. 

He  had  had  the  message  from  my  lord  Shrewsbury  that 
A  magistrate  of  her  Grace  should  show  more  zeal;  and, 
along  with  this,  had  come  a  private  intimation  that  it  was 
suspected  that  Mr.  Audrey  had  at  least  once  warned  the 
recusants  of  an  approaching  attack.  It  would  be  as  well, 
then,  if  he  would  manifest  a  little  activity.  .  .  . 

But  it  appeared  to  him  the  worst  luck  in  the  world  that 
the  hunt  should  lead  him  to  Mistress  Manners'  door. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  that  the  informer  had  made 
his  appearance  at  Matstead,  thirsty  and  dishevelled,  with 
the  news  that  a  man  thought  to  be  a  Popish  priest  was  in 
hiding  on  the  moors;  that  he  was  being  kept  under  obser- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  419 

vation  by  another  informer ;  and  that  it  was  to  be  suspected 
that  he  was  the  man  who  had  been  missed  at  Padley  when 
my  lord  had  taken  Garlick  and  Ludlam.  If  it  were  the 
man,  it  would  be  the  priest  known  by  the  name  of  Alban — 
the  fellow  whom  my  lord's  man  had  so  much  distrusted  at 
Fotheringay,  and  whom  he  had  seen  again  in  Derby  a  while 
later.  Next,  if  it  were  this  man,  he  would  almost  certainly 
make  for  Padley  if  he  were  disturbed. 

Mr.  Audrey  had  bitten  his  nails  a  while  as  he  listened  to 
this,  and  then  had  suddenly  consented.  The  plan  sug- 
gested was  simple  enough.  One  little  troop  should  ride  to 
Padley,  gathering  reinforcements  on  the  way,  and  another 
on  foot  should  set  out  for  the  shepherd's  hut.  Then,  if 
the  priest  should  be  gone,  this  second  party  should  come 
on  towards  Padley  immediately  and  join  forces  with  the 
riders. 

All  this  had  been  done,  and  the  mounted  company,  led 
by  the  magistrate  himself,  had  come  up  from  the  valley  in 
time  to  see  the  signalling  from  the  heights  (contrived  by 
the  showing  of  lights  now  and  again),  which  indicated 
that  the  priest  was  moving  in  the  direction  that  had  been 
expected,  and  that  one  man  at  least  was  on  his  track. 
They  had  waited  there,  in  the  valley,  till  the  intermittent 
signals  had  reached  the  level  ground  and  ceased,  and  had 
then  ridden  up  cautiously  in  time  to  meet  the  informer's 
companion,  and  to  learn  that  the  fugitive  had  doubled  sud- 
denly back  towards  Booth's  Edge.  There  they  had  waited 
then,  till  the  dawn  was  imminent,  and,  with  it,  there  came 
the  party  on  foot,  as  had  been  arranged;  then,  all  to- 
gether, numbering  about  twenty-five  men,  they  had  pushed 
on  in  the  direction  of  Mistress  Manners'  house. 

As  the  house  came  into  view,  more  than  ever  Mr.  Audrey 
reproached  his  evil  luck.  Certainly  there  still  were  two  or 
three  chances  to  one  that  no  priest  would  be  taken  at  all; 


420  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

since,  first,  the  man  might  not  be  a  priest,  and  next,  he 
might  have  passed  the  manor  and  plunged  back  again  into 
the  hills.  But  it  was  not  very  pleasant  work,  this  rousing 
of  a  house  inhabited  by  a  woman  for  whom  the  magistrate 
had  very  far  from  unkindly  feelings,  and  on  such  an  er- 
rand. ...  So  the  informers  marvelled  at  the  venom  with 
which  Mr.  Audrey  occasionally  whispered  at  them  in  the 
dark. 

His  heart  sank  as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  light  first 
showing,  and  then  suddenly  extinguished,  in  the  windows 
of  the  hall,  but  he  was  relieved  to  hear  no  comment  on  it 
from  the  men  who  walked  by  his  horse;  he  even  hoped 
that  they  had  not  seen  it.  ...  But  he  must  do  his  duty, 
he  said  to  himself. 

He  grew  a  little  warm  and  impatient  when  no  answer 
came  to  the  knocking.  He  said  such  play-acting  was  ab- 
surd. Why  did  not  the  man  come  out  courageously  and 
deny  that  he  was  a  priest?  He  would  have  a  far  better 
excuse  for  letting  him  go. 

"  Knock  again,"  he  cried. 

And  again  the  thunder  rang  through  the  archway,  and 
the  summons  in  the  Queen's  name  to  open. 

Then  at  last  a  light  shone  beneath  the  door.  (It  was 
brightening  rapidly  towards  the  dawn  here  in  the  open  air, 
but  within  it  would  still  be  dark.)  Then  a  voice  grumbled 
within. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"  Man,"  bellowed  the  magistrate,  "  open  the  door  and 
have  done  with  it.  I  tell  you  I  am  a  magistrate !  " 

There  was  silence.     Then  the  voice  came  again. 

"  How  do  I  know  that  you  are  ?  " 

Mr.  Audrey  slipped  off  his  horse,  scrambled  to  the  door, 
set  his  hands  on  his  knees  and  his  mouth  to  the  kevhole. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  421 

"  Open  the  door,  you  fool,  in  the  Queen's  name.  ...  I 
am  Mr.  Audrey,  of  Matstead." 

Again  came  the  pause.  The  magistrate  was  in  the  act 
of  turning  to  bid  his  men  beat  the  door  in,  when  once  more 
the  voice  came. 

"  I'll  tell  the  mistress,  sir.  .  .  .  She's  a-bed." 

His  discomfort  grew  on  him  as  he  waited,  staring  out  at 
the  fast  yellowing  sky.  (Beneath  him  the  slopes  towards 
the  valley  and  the  far-off  hills  on  the  other  side  appeared 
like  a  pencil  drawing,  delicate,  minute  and  colourless,  or,  at 
the  most,  faintly  tinted  in  phantoms  of  their  own  colours. 
The  sky,  too,  was  grey  with  the  night  mists  not  yet  dis- 
solved.) It  was  an  unneighbourly  action,  this  of  his,  he 
thought.  He  must  do  his  best  to  make  it  as  little  offensive 
as  he  could.  He  turned  to  his  men. 

"  Now,  men,"  he  said,  glaring  like  a  judge,  "  no  violence 
here,  unless  I  give  the  order.  No  breaking  of  aught  in  the 
house.  The  lady  here  is  a  friend  of  mine;  and " 

The  great  bolts  shot  back  suddenly;  he  turned  as  the 
door  opened ;  and  there,  pale  as  milk,  with  eyes  that  seemed 
a-fire,  Marjorie's  face  was  looking  at  him;  she  was  wrapped 
in  her  long  cloak  and  her  hood  was  drawn  over  her  head. 
The  space  behind  was  crowded  with  faces,  unrecognizable 
in  the  shadow. 

He  saluted  her. 

"  Mistress  Manners,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sorry  to  incommode 
you  in  this  way.  But  a  couple  of  fellows  tell  me  that  a 
man  hath  come  this  way,  whom  they  think  to  be  a  priest. 
I  am  a  magistrate,  mistress,  and " 

He  stopped,  confounded  by  her  face.  It  was  not  like 
her  face  at  all — the  face,  rather,  seemed  as  nothing;  her 
whole  soul  was  in  her  eyes,  crying  to  him  some  message 


422  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

that  he  could  not  understand.  It  appeared  impossible  to 
him  that  this  was  a  mere  entreaty  that  he  should  leave 
one  more  priest  at  liberty;  impossible  that  the  mere  sliock 
and  surprise  should  have  changed  her  so.  ...  He  looked 
at  her.  .  .  .  Then  he  began  again: 

"  It  is  no  will  of  mine,  mistress,  beyond  my  duty.  But 
I  hold  her  Grace's  commission " 

She  swept  back  again,  motioning  him  to  enter.  He  was 
astonished  at  his  own  discomfort,  but  he  followed,  and  his 
men  pressed  close  after;  and  he  noticed,  even  in  that  twi- 
light, that  a  look  of  despair  went  over  the  girl's  fape,  sharp 
as  pain,  as  she  saw  them. 

"You  have  come  to  search  my  house,  sir?"  she  asked- 
Her  voice  was  as  colourless  as  her  features. 

"  My  commission,  mistress,  compels  me " 

Then  he  noticed  that  the  doors  into  the  hall  had  been 
pushed  open,  and  that  she  was  moving  towards  them.  And 
he  thought  he  understood. 

"  Stand  back,  men,"  he  barked,  so  fiercely  that  they  re- 
coiled. "  This  lady  shall  speak  with  me  first." 

He  passed  up  the  hall  after  her.  He  was  as  unhappy  as 
possible.  He  wondered  what  she  could  have  to  say  to  him; 
she  must  surely  understand  that  no  pleading  could  turn  him  j 
he  must  do  his  duty.  Yet  he  would  certainly  do  this  with 
as  little  offence  as  he  could. 

"  Mistress  Manners "  he  began. 

Then  she  turned  on  him  again.  They  were  at  the  furthe.* 
end  of  the  hall,  and  could  speak  low  without  being  over* 
heard. 

"  You  must  begone  again,"  she  whispered.  "  Oh !  yo» 
must  begone  again.  You  do  not  understand;  you " 

Her  eyes  still  burned  with  that  terrible  eloquence;  it 
was  as  the  face  of  one  on  the  rack. 


COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE! 

"  Mistress,  I  cannot  begone  again.  I  must  do  my  duty. 
But  I  promise  you •" 

She  was  close  to  him,  staring  into  his  face ;  he  could  feel 
the  heat  of  her  breath  on  his  face. 

"  You  must  begone  at  once,"  she  whispered,  still  in  that 
voice  of  agony.  He  saw  her  begin  to  sway  on  her  feet 
and  her  eyes  turn  glassy.  He  caught  her  as  she  swayed. 

"  Here !  you  women !  "  he  cried. 

It  was  all  that  he  could  do  to  force  himself  out  through 
the  crowd  of  folks  that  looked  on  him.  It  was  not  that 
they  barred  his  way.  Rather  they  shrank  from  him;  yet 
their  eyes  pulled  and  impeded  him;  it  was  by  a  separate 
effort  that  he  put  each  foot  before  the  other.  Behind  he 
could  hear  the  long  moan  that  she  had  given  die  into  silence, 
and  the  chattering  whispers  of  her  women  who  held  her. 
He  reassured  himself  savagely;  he  would  take  care  that 
no  one  was  taken  .  .  .  she  would  thank  him  presently;  he 
would  but  set  guards  at  all  the  doors  and  make  a  cursory 
search;  he  would  break  a  panel  or  two;  no  more.  And 
that  would  save  both  his  face  and  her  own.  .  .  .  Yet  he 
loathed  even  such  work  as  this.  .  .  . 

He  turned  abruptly  as  he  came  into  the  buttery  passage. 

"  All  the  women  in  the  hall,"  he  said  sharply.  "  Jack, 
keep  the  door  fast  till  we  are  done." 


He  took  particular  pains  to  do  as  little  damage  as  pos- 
sible. 

First  he  went  through  the  out-houses,  himself  with  a  pike 
testing  the  haystacks,  where  he  was  sure  that  no  man  could 
be  hidden.  The  beasts  turned  slow  and  ruminating  eyes 
upon  him  as  he  went  by  their  stalls. 


424  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

As  he  passed,  a  little  later,  the  inner  door  into  the  buttery 
passage,  he  could  hear  the  beating  of  hands  on  the  hall- 
door.  He  went  on  quickly  to  the  kitchen,  hating  himself, 
yet  determined  to  get  all  done  quickly,  and  drove  the 
kitchen-maid,  who  was  crouching  by  the  unlighted  fire,  out 
behind  him,  sending  a  man  with  her  to  bestow  her  in  the 
hall.  She  wailed  as  she  went  by  him,  but  it  was  unintelli- 
gible, and  he  was  in  no  mood  for  listening. 

"  Take  her  in,"  he  said ;  "  but  let  no  one  out,  nor  a  mes-« 
sage,  till  all  is  done."  (He  thought  that  the  kinder  course.) 

Then  at  last  he  went  upstairs,  still  with  his  little  body- 
guard of  four,  of  whom  one  was  the  man  who  had  followed 
the  fugitive  down  from  the  hills. 

He  began  with  the  little  rooms  over  the  hall:  a  bedstead 
stood  in  one;  in  another  was  a  table  all  piled  with  linen* 
a  third  had  its  floor  covered  with  early  autumn  fruit,  ready 
for  preserving.  He  struck  on  a  panel  or  two  as  he  went, 
for  form's  sake. 

As  he  came  out  again  he  turned  savagely  on  the  informer. 

"It  is  damned  nonsense,"  he  said;  "the  fellow's  not 
here  at  all.  I  told  you  he'd  have  gone  back  to  the  hills." 

The  man  looked  up  at  him  with  a  furtive  kind  of  sneer 
in  his  face ;  he,  too,  was  angry  enough ;  the  loss  of  the  priest 
meant  the  loss  of  the  heavy  reward. 

"  We  have  not  searched  a  room  rightly  yet,  sir," 
he  snarled.  "  There  are  a  hundred  places " 

"  Not  searched !  You  villain !  Why,  what  would  you 
have?" 

"  It's  not  the  manner  I've  done  it  before,  sir.  A  pike- 
thrust  here,  and  a  blow  there " 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  not  have  the  house  injured !  Mistress 
Manners " 

"  Very  good,  sir.  Your  honour  is  the  magistrate.  .  .  . 
I  am  not." 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  425 

The  old  man's  temper  boiled  over.  They  were  passing 
at  that  instant  a  half-open  door,  and  within  he  could  see  a 
bare  little  parlour,  with  linen  presses  against  the  walls.  It 
would  not  hide  a  cat. 

"  Do  you  search,  then !  "  he  cried.  "  Here,  then,  and  I 
will  watch  you!  But  you  shall  pay  for  any  wanton  dam- 
age, I  tell  you." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  What  is  the  use,  then "  he  began. 

"  Bah !  search,  then,  as  you  will.     I  will  pay." 

The  noise  from  the  hall  had  ceased  altogether  as  the 
four  men  went  into  the  parlour.  It  was  a  plain  little  room, 
with  an  open  fireplace  and  a  great  settle  beside  it.  There 
were  hangings  here  and  there.  That  over  the  hearth  pre- 
sented Icarus  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun.  It  seemed  such  a 
place  as  that  in  which  two  lovers  might  sit  and  talk  to- 
gether at  sunset.  ...  In  one  place  hung  a  dark  oil  paint- 
ing. 

The  old  man  went  across  to  the  window  and  stared  out. 

The  sun  was  up  by  now,  far  away  out  of  sight;  and  the 
whole  sunlit  valley  lay  stretched  beneath  beyond  the  slopes 
that  led  down  to  Padley.  The  loathing  for  his  work  rose 
up  again  and  choked  him — this  desperate  bullying  of  a  few 
women ;  and  all  to  no  purpose.  He  stared  out  at  the  horses 
beneath,  and  at  the  couple  of  men  gossiping  together  at 
their  heads.  ...  He  determined  to  see  Mistress  Manners 
again  alone  presently,  when  she  should  be  recovered,  and 
have  a  word  with  her  in  private.  She  would  forgive  him, 
perhaps,  when  she  saw  him  ride  off  empty-handed,  as  he 
most  certainly  meant  to  do. 

He  thought,  too,  of  other  things,  this  old  man,  as  he 
stood,  with  his  shoulders  squared,  resolute  in  his  lack  of 
attention  to  the  mean  work  going  on  behind  him.  ...  He 


426  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

wondered  whether  God  were  angry  or  no.  Whether  this 
kind  of  duty  were  according  to  His  will.  Down  there  was 
Padley,  where  he  had  heard  mass  in  the  old  days;  Padley, 
where  the  two  priests  had  been  taken  a  few  weeks  ago.  He 
wondered ' ' 

"  If  it  please  your  honour  we  will  break  in  this  panel/' 
came  the  smooth,  sneering  voice  that  he  loathed. 

He  turned  sullenly. 

They  were  opposite  the  old  picture.  Beneath  it  there 
showed  a  crack  in  the  wainscoting.  .  .  .  He  could  scarcely 
refuse  leave.  Besides,  the  woodwork  was  flawed  in  any 
case — he  would  pay  for  a  new  panel  himself. 

"  There  is  nothing  there !  "  he  said  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  the  man  with  a  peculiar  look.  "  It 
is  but  to  make  a  show " 

The  old  man's  brows  came  down  angrily.  Then  he 
nodded;  and,  leaning  against  the  window,  watched  them. 

One  of  his  own  men  came  forward  with  a  hammer  and 
chisel.  He  placed  the  chisel  at  the  edge  of  the  cracked 
panel,  where  the  informer  directed,  and  struck  a  blow  or 
two.  There  was  the  unmistakable  dull  sound  of  wood 
against  stone — not  an  echo  of  resonance.  The  old  man 
smiled  grimly  to  himself.  The  man  must  be  a  fool  if  he 
thought  there  could  be  any  hole  there !  .  .  .  Well ;  he  would 
let  them  do  what  they  would  here;  and  then  forbid  any 
further  damage.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  the  priest  really 
were  in  the  house  or  no. 

The  two  men  Had  their  heads  together  now,  eyeing  the 
crack  they  had  made.  .  .  .  Then  the  informer  said  some- 
thing in  a  low  voice  that  the  old  man  could  not  hear;  and 
the  other,  handing  him  the  chisel  and  hammer,  went  out 
of  the  room,  beckoning  to  one  of  the  two  others  that  stood 
waiting  at  the  door. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  437 

"  Well?  "  sneered  the  old  man.  "  Have  you  caught  your 
bird?" 

"  Not  yet,  sir." 

He  could  hear  the  steps  of  the  others  in  the  next  room; 
and  then  silence. 

"  What  are  they  doing  there?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Nothing,  sir.  ...  I  just  bade  a  man  wait  on  that 
side." 

The  man  was  once  more  inserting  the  chisel  in  the  top  of 
the  wainscoting;  then  he  presently  began  to  drive  it  down 
with  the  hammer  as  if  to  detach  it  from  the  wall. 

Suddenly  he  stopped;  and  at  the  same  instant  the  old 
man  heard  some  faint,  muffled  noise,  as  of  footsteps  moving 
either  in  the  wall  or  beyond  it. 

"  What  is  that?  " 

The  man  said  nothing;  he  appeared  to  be  listening. 

"What  is  that?"  demanded  the  other  again,  with  a 
strange  uneasiness  at  his  heart.  Was  it  possible,  after  all! 
Then  the  man  dropped  his  chisel  and  hammer  and  darted 
out  and  vanished.  A  sudden  noise  of  voices  and  tramp- 
lings  broke  out  somewhere  out  of  sight. 

"  God's  blood !  "  roared  the  old  man  in  anger  and  dis- 
may. "  I  believe  they  have  the  poor  devil !  " 

He  ran  out,  two  steps  down  the  passage  and  in  again  at 
the  door  of  the  next  room.  It  was  a  bedroom,  with  two 
beds  side  by  side:  a  great  press  with  open  doors  stood 
between  the  hearth  and  the  window;  and,  in  the  midst  of 
the  floor,  five  men  struggled  and  swayed  together.  The 
fifth  was  a  bearded  young  man,  well  dressed;  but  he  could 
not  see  his  face. 

Then  they  had  him  tight;  his  hands  were  twisted  behind 
his  back;  an  arm  was  flung  round  his  neck;  and  another 
man,  crouching,  had  his  legs  embraced.  He  cried  out  once 


428  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

or  twice.  .  .  .  The  old  man  turned  sick  ...  a  great  rush 
of  blood  seemed  to  be  hammering  in  his  ears  and  dilattng 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  He  ran  forward,  tearing  at  the  arm  that  was 
choking  the  prisoner's  throat,  and  screaming  he  knew  not 
what. 

And  it  was  then  that  he  knew  for  certain  that  this  was 
his  son. 


CHAPTER  VI 


ROBIN  drew  a  long  breath  as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 
Then  he  went  forward  to  the  table,  and  sat  on  it,  swinging 
his  feet,  and  looking  carefully  and  curiously  round  the  room, 
so  far  as  the  darkness  would  allow  him;  his  eyes  had  had 
scarcely  time  yet  to  become  accustomed  to  the  change 
from  the  brilliant  sunshine  outside  to  the  gloom  of  the 
prison.  It  was  his  first  experience  of  prison,  and,  for  the 
present,  he  was  more  interested  than  subdued  by  it. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  a  lifetime  had  passed  since  the 
early  morning,  up  in  the  hills,  when  he  had  attempted  to 
escape  by  the  bedroom,  and  had  been  seized  as  he  came 
out  of  the  press.  Of  course,  he  had  fought;  it  was  his 
right  and  his  duty;  and  he  had  not  known  the  utter  use- 
lessness  of  it,  in  that  guarded  house.  He  had  known  noth- 
ing of  what  was  going  forward.  He  had  heard  the  en- 
trance of  the  searchers  below,  and  now  and  again  their 
footsteps.  .  .  .  Then  he  had  seen  the  wainscoting  begin 
to  gape  before  him,  and  had  understood  that  his  only 
chance  was  by  the  way  he  had  entered.  Then,  as  he  had 
caught  sight  of  his  father,  he  had  ceased  his  struggles. 

He  h£,d  not  said  one  word  to  him.  The  shock  was  com- 
plete and  unexpected.  He  had  seen  the  old  man  stagger 
back  and  sink  on  the  bed.  Then  he  had  been  hurried 
from  the  room  and  downstairs.  As  the  party  came  into 
the  buttery  entrance,  there  had  been  a  great  clamour;  the 

429 


430  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

man  on  guard  at  the  hall  doors  had  run  forward ;  the  doors 
had  opened  suddenly  and  Marjorie  had  come  out,  with  a 
surge  of  faces  behind  her.  But  to  her,  too,  he  had  said 
nothing;  he  had  tried  to  smile;  he  was  still  faint  and  sick 
from  the  fight  upstairs.  But  he  had  been  pushed  out  into 
the  air,  where  he  saw  the  horses  waiting,  and  round  the 
corner  of  the  house  into  an  out-building,  and  there  he  had 
had  time  to  recover. 

It  was  strange  how  little  religion  had  come  to  his  aid 
during  that  hour  of  waiting;  and,  indeed,  during  the  long 
and  weary  ride  to  Derby.  He  had  tried  to  pray ;  but  he  had 
had  no  consolation,  such  as  he  supposed  must  surely  come 
to  all  who  suffered  for  Christ.  It  had  been,  instead,  the 
tiny  things  that  absorbed  his  attention;  the  bundle  of  hay 
in  the  corner;  an  ancient  pitch-fork;  the  heads  of  his 
guards  outside  the  little  barred  window;  the  sound  of  their 
voices  talking.  Later,  when  a  man  had  come  out  from  the 
house,  and  looked  in  at  his  door,  telling  him  that  they  must 
start  in  ten  minutes,  and  giving  him  a  hunch  of  bread  to 
eat,  it  had  been  the  way  the  man's  eyebrows  grew  over  his 
nose,  and  the  creases  of  his  felt  hat,  to  which  he  gave  his 
mind.  Somewhere,  far  beneath  in  himself,  he  knew  that 
there  were  other  considerations  and  memories  and  move- 
ments, that  were  even  fears  and  hopes  and  desires ;  but  he 
could  not  come  at  these;  he  was  as  a  man  struggling  to 
dive,  held  up  on  the  surface  by  sheets  of  cork.  He  knew 
that  his  father  was  in  that  house;  that  it  was  his  father 
who  had  been  the  means  of  taking  him;  that  Marjorie  was 
there — yet  these  facts  were  as  tales  read  in  a  book.  So, 
too,  with  his  faith;  his  lips  repeated  words  now  and  then; 
but  God  was  as  far  from  him  and  as  inconceivably  unreal, 
as  is  the  thought  of  sunshine  and  a  garden  to  a  miner 
freezing  painlessly  in  the  dark.  .  ,  . 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  431 

In  the  same  state  he  was  led  out  again  presently,  and 
set  on  a  horse.  And  while  a  man  attached  one  foot  to  the 
other  by  a  cord  beneath  the  horse's  belly,  he  looked  like  a 
child  at  the  arched  doorway  of  the  house;  at  a  patch  of 
lichen  that  was  beginning  to  spread  above  the  lintel;  at 
the  open  window  of  the  room  above. 

He  vaguely  desired  to  speak  with  Marjorie  again;  he 
even  asked  the  man  who  was  tying  his  feet  whether  he 
might  do  so ;  but  he  got  no  answer.  A  group  of  men  watched 
him  from  the  door,  and  he  noticed  that  they  were  silent. 
He  wondered  if  it  were  the  tying  of  his  feet  in  which  they 
were  so  much  absorbed. 

Little  by  little,  as  they  rode,  this  oppression  began  to 
lift.  Half  a  dozen  times  he  determined  to  speak  with  the 
man  who  rode  beside  him  and  held  his  horse  by  a  leading 
rein;  and  each  time  he  did  not  speak.  Neither  did  any 
man  speak  to  him.  Another  man  rode  behind;  and  a  dozen 
or  so  went  on  foot.  He  could  hear  them  talking  together 
in  low  voices. 

He  was  finally  roused  by  his  companion's  speaking.  He 
had  noticed  the  man  look  at  him  now  and  again  strangely 
and  not  unkindly. 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  are  a  son  of  Mr.  Audrey,  sir  ?  " 
He  was  on  the  point  of  saying  "  Yes,"  when  his  mind 
seemed  to  come  back  to  him  as  clear  as  an  awakening  from 
sleep.  He  understood  that  he  must  not  identify  himself 
if  he  could  help  it.  He  had  been  told  at  Rheims  that  silence 
was  best  in  such  matters. 

"  Mr.  Audrey?  "  he  said.     "  The  magistrate?  " 
The  man  nodded.    He  did  not  seem  an  unkindly  person- 
nge  at  all.     Then  he  smiled. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said.     "Less  said " 


432  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

He  broke  off  and  began  to  whistle.  Then  he  interrupted 
himself  once  more. 

"  He  was  still  in  his  fit/'  he  said,  "  when  we  came  away. 
Mistress  Manners  was  with  him." 

Intelligence  was  flowing  back  in  Robin's  brain  like  a 
tide.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  perceived  things  with  an 
extraordinary  clearness  and  rapidity.  He  understood  he 
must  show  no  dismay  or  horror  of  any  kind;  he  must  carry 
himself  easily  and  detachedly. 

"  In  a  fit,  was  he?  " 

The  other  nodded. 

"  I  am  arrested  on  his  warrant,  then?  And  on  what 
charge  ?  " 

The  man  laughed  outright. 

"  That's  too  good,"  he  said.  "  Why,  we  have  a  bundle  of 
popery  on  the  horse  behind!  It  was  all  in  the  hiding- 
hole  !  " 

"  I  am  supposed  to  be  a  priest,  then  ?  "  said  Robin,  with 
admirable  disdain. 

Again  the  man  laughed. 

"  They  will  have  some  trouble  in  proving  that,"  said 
Robin  viciously. 

He  learned  presently  whither  they  were  going.  He  was 
right  in  thinking  it  to  be  Derby.  There  he  was  to  be 
handed  over  to  the  gaoler.  The  trial  would  probably  come 
on  at  the  Michaelmas  assizes,  five  or  six  weeks  hence.  He 
would  have  leave  to  communicate  with  a  lawyer  when  he 
was  once  safely  bestowed  there;  but  whether  or  no  his 
lawyer  or  any  other  visitors  would  be  admitted  to  him  was 
a  matter  for  the  magistrates. 

They  ate  as  they  rode,  and  reached  Derby  in  the  after- 
noon. 

At  the  very  outskirts  the  peculiar  nature  of  this  caval- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  433 

cade  was  observed;  and  by  the  time  that  they  came  within 
sight  of  the  market-square  a  considerable  mob  was  hustling 
along  on  all  sides.  There  were  a  few  cries  raised.  Robin 
could  not  distinguish  the  words,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as 
if  some  were  raised  for  him  as  well  as  against  him.  He 
kept  his  head  somewhat  down;  he  thought  it  better  to  risk 
no  complications  that  might  arise  should  he  be  recognised. 

As  they  drew  nearer  the  market-place  the  progress  be- 
came yet  slower,  for  the  crowd  seemed  suddenly  and  ab- 
normally swelled.  There  was  a  great  shouting  of  voices, 
too,  in  front,  and  the  smell  of  burning  came  distinctly  on 
the  breeze.  The  man  riding  beside  Robin  turned  his  head 
and  called  out;  and  in  answer  one  of  the  others  riding  be- 
hind pushed  his  horse  up  level  with  the  other  two,  so  that 
the  prisoner  had  a  guard  on  either  side.  A  few  steps 
further,  and  another  order  was  issued,  followed  by  the 
pressing  up  of  the  men  that  went  on  foot  so  as  to  form  a 
complete  square  about  the  three  riders. 

Robin  put  a  question,  but  the  men  gave  him  no  answer. 
He  could  see  that  they  were  preoccupied  and  anxious. 
Then,  as  step  by  step  they  made  their  way  forward  and 
gained  the  corner  of  the  market-place,  he  saw  the  reason 
of  these  precautions ;  for  the  whole  square  was  one  pack  of 
heads,  except  where,  somewhere  in  the  midst,  a  great  bon- 
fire blazed  in  the  sunlight.  The  noise,  too,  was  deafening; 
drums  were  beating,  horns  blowing,  men  shouting  aloud. 
From  window  after  window  leaned  heads,  and,  as  the  party 
advanced  yet  further,  they  came  suddenly  in  view  of  a 
scaffold  hung  with  gay  carpets  and  ribbons,  on  which 
a  civil  dignitary,  in  some  official  dress,  was  gesticu- 
lating. 

It  was  useless  to  ask  a  question;  not  a  word  could  have 
been  heard  unless  it  were  shouted  aloud;  and  presently  the 
din  redoubled,  for  out  of  sight,  round  some  corner,  jruns 


434  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

were  suddenly  shot  off  one  after  another;  and  the  cheering 
grew  shrill  and  piercing  in  contrast. 

As  they  came  out  at  last,  without  attracting  any  great 
attention,  into  the  more  open  space  at  the  entrance  of  Friar's 
Gate,  Robin  turned  again  and  asked  what  the  matter  was. 
It  was  plainly  not  himself,  as  he  had  at  first  almost  be- 
lieved. 

The  man  turned  an  exultant  face  to  him. 

"  It's  the  Spanish  fleet !  "  he  said.  "  There's  not  a  ship 
of  it  left,  they  say." 

When  they,  halted  at  the  gate  of  the  prison  there  was 
another  pause,  while  the  cord  that  tied  his  feet  was  cut, 
and  he  was  helped  from  his  horse,  as  he  was  stiff  and  con- 
strained from  the  long  ride  under  such  circumstances.  He 
heard  a  roar  of  interest  and  abuse,  and,  perhaps,  a  little 
sympathy,  from  the  part  of  the  crowd  that  had  followed, 
as  the  gate  closed  behind  him. 

II 

As  his  eyes  became  better  accustomed  to  the  dark,  he 
began  to  see  what  kind  of  a  place  it  was  in  which  he  found 
himself.  It  was  a  square  little  room  on  the  ground-floor, 
with  a  single,  heavily-barred  window,  against  which  the 
dirt  had  collected  in  such  quantities  as  to  exclude  almost 
all  light.  The  floor  was  beaten  earth,  damp  and  uneven; 
the  walls  were  built  of  stones  and  timber,  and  were  drip- 
ping with  moisture;  there  was  a  table  and  a  stool  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  and  a  dark  heap  in  the  corner.  He 
examined  this  presently,  and  found  it  to  be  rotting  hay 
covered  with  some  kind  of  rug.  The  whole  place  smelled 
hideously  foul. 

From  far  away  outside  came  still  the  noise  of  cheering, 
heard  as  through  wool,  and  the  sharp  reports  of  the  cannon 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  435 

they  were  still  firing.  The  Armada  seemed  very  remote 
from  him,  here  in  ward.  Its  destruction  affected  him  now 
hardly  at  all,  except  for  the  worse,  since  an  anti-Catholic 
reaction  might  very  well  follow.  .  .  .  He  set  himself,  with 
scarcely  an  effort,  to  contemplate  more  personal  matters. 

He  was  astonished  that  his  purse  had  not  been  taken  from 
him.  He  had  been  searched  rapidly  just  now,  in  an  outer 
passage,  by  a  couple  of  men,  one  of  whom  he  understood 
to  be  his  gaoler;  and  a  knife  and  a  chain  and  his  rosary 
had  been  taken  from  him.  But  the  purse  had  been  put 
back  again.  .  .  .  He  remembered  presently  that  the  pos- 
session of  money  made  a  considerable  difference  to  a  pris- 
oner's comfort;  but  he  determined  to  do  as  little  as  he  was 
obliged  in  this  way.  He  might  need  the  money  more 
urgently  by  and  by. 

By  the  time  that  he  had  gone  carefully  round  his  prison- 
walls,  even  reaching  up  to  the  window  and  testing  the  bars, 
pushing  as  noiselessly  as  he  could  against  the  door,  pacing 
the  distances  in  every  direction — he  had,  at  the  same  time, 
once  more  arranged  arid  rehearsed  every  piece  of  evidence 
that  he  possessed,  and  formed  a  number  of  resolutions. 

He  was  perfectly  clear  by  now  that  his  father  had  been 
wholly  ignorant  of  the  identity  of  the  man  he  was  after. 
The  horror  in  the  gasping  face  that  he  had  seen  so  close  to 
his  own,  above  the  strangling  arm,  set  that  beyond  a  doubt; 
the  news  of  the  fit  into  which  his  father  had  fallen  con- 
firmed it. 

Next,  he  had  been  right  in  believing  himself  watched  in 
the  shepherd's  hut,  and  followed  down  from  it.  This  hid- 
ing of  his  in  the  hills,  the  discovery  of  him  in  the  hiding- 
hole,  together  with  the  vestments— these  two  things  were 
the  heaviest  pieces  of  testimony  against  him.  More  remote 
testimony  might  be  brought  forward  from  his  earlier  ad- 


436  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

ventures — his  presence  at  Fotheringay,  his  recognition 
by  my  lord's  man.  But  these  were,  in  themselves,  indiffer- 
ent. 

His  resolutions  were   few  and   simple. 

He  would  behave  himself  quietly  in  all  ways:  he  would 
make  no  demand  to  see  anyone;  since  he  knew  that  what- 
ever was  possible  would  be  done  for  him  by  Marjorie.  He 
would  deny  nothing  and  assert  very  little  if  he  were  brought 
before  the  magistrates.  Finally,  he  would  say,  if  he  could; 
a  dry  mass  every  day;  and  observe  the  hours  of  prayer  sc 
far  as  he  could.  He  had  no  books  with  him  of  any  kind. 
But  he  could  pray  God  for  fortitude. 

Then  he  knelt  down  on  the  earth  floor  and  said  his  first 
prayer  in  prison;  the  prayer  that  had  rung  so  often  in  his 
mind  since  Mary  herself  had  prayed  it  aloud  on  the  scaf- 
fold ;  and  Mr.  Bourgoign  had  repeated  it  to  him. 

"  As  Thy  arms,  O  Christ,  were  extended  on  the  Cross ; 
even  so  receive  me  into  the  arms  of  Thy  mercy,  and  blot 
out  all  my  sins  with  Thy  most  precious  Blood." 


CHAPTER  VII 


THERE  was  a  vast  crowd  in  the  market-place  at  Michaelmas 
to  see  the  judges  come — partly  because  there  was  always 
excitement  at  the  visible  majesty  of  the  law;  partly  be- 
cause the  tale  of  one  at  least  of  the  prisoners  had  roused 
interest.  It  was  a  dramatic  tale:  he  was  first  a  seminary 
priest  and  a  Derbyshire  man  (many  remembered  him  riding 
as  a  little  lad  beside  his  father)  ;  he  was,  next,  a  runaway 
to  Rheims  for  religion's  sake,  when  his  father  conformed; 
third,  he  had  been  taken  in  the  house  of  Mistress  Manners, 
to  whom,  report  said,  he  had  once  been  betrothed;  last, 
he  had  been  taken  by  his  father  himself.  All  this  fur- 
nished matter  for  a  quantity  of  conversation  in  the  taverns; 
and  it  was  freely  discussed  by  the  sentimental  whether 
or  no,  if  the  priest  yielded  and  conformed,  he  would  yet  find 
Mistress  Manners  willing  to  wed  him. 

Signs  of  the  Armada  rejoicings  still  survived  in  the 
market-place  as  the  judges  rode  in.  Streamers  hung  in 
the  sunshine,  rather  bedraggled  after  so  long,  from  the 
roof  and  pillars  of  the  Guildhall,  and  a  great  smoke-black- 
ened patch  between  the  conduit  and  the  cross  marked  where 
the  ox  had  been  roasted.  There  was  a  deal  of  loyal  cheer- 
ing as  the  procession  went  by;  for  these  splendid  person- 
ages on  horseback  stood  to  the  mob  for  the  power  that  had 
repelled  the  enemies  of  England;  and  her  Grace's  name 
was  received  with  enthusiasm.  Behind  the  judges  and  their 
escort  came  a  cavalcade  of  riders — gentlemen,  grooms,  serv- 
ants, and  agents  of  all  sorts.  But  not  a  Derby  man  no- 

427 


438  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

ticed  or  recognised  a  thin  gentleman  who  rode  modestly  hi 
the  midst,  with  a  couple  of  personal  servants  on  eithei 
side  of  him.  It  was  not  until  the  visitors  had  separated 
to  the  various  houses  and  inns  where  they  were  to  be 
lodged,  and  the  mob  was  dispersing  home  again,  that  it 
began  to  be  rumoured  everywhere  that  Mr.  Topcliffe  was 
come  again  to  Derby  on  a  special  mission. 


II 

The  tidings  came  to  Marjorie  as  she  leaned  back  in  hef 
chair  in  Mr.  Biddell's  parlour  and  listened  to  the  last 
shoutings. 

She  had  been  in  town  now  three  days. 

Ever  since  the  capture  she  had  been  under  guard  in  hev 
own  house  till  three  days  ago.  Four  men  had  been  billeted 
upon  her,  not,  indeed,  by  the  orders  of  Mr.  Audrey,  since 
Mr.  Audrey  was  in  no  condition  to  control  affairs  any 
longer,  but  by  the  direction  of  Mr.  Columbell,  who  had 
himself  ridden  out  to  take  charge  at  Booth's  Edge,  when 
the  news  of  the  arrest  had  come,  with  the  prisoner  him- 
self, to  the  city.  It  was  he,  too,  who  had  seen  to  the  re- 
moval of  Mr.  Audrey  a  week  later,  when  he  had  recovered 
from  the  weakness  caused  by  the  fit  sufficiently  to  travel 
as  far  as  Derby;  for  it  was  thought  better  that  the  magis- 
trate who  had  effected  the  capture  should  be  accessible 
to  the  examining  magistrates.  It  was,  of  course,  lamen- 
table, said  Mr.  Columbell,  that  father  and  son  should  have 
been  brought  into  such  relations,  and  he  would  do  all  that 
he  could  to  relieve  Mr.  Audrey  from  any  painful  task  in 
which  they  could  do  without  him.  But  her  Grace's  busi- 
ness must  be  done,  and  he  had  had  special  messages  from 
my  lord  Shrewsbury  himself  that  the  prisoner  must  be 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  439 

dealt  with  sternly.  It  was  believed,  wrote  my  lord,  that 
Mr.  Alban,  as  he  called  himself,  had  a  good  deal  more 
against  him  than  the  mere  fact  of  being  a  seminary  priest: 
it  was  thought  that  he  had  been  involved  in  the  Babington 
plot,  and  had  at  least  once  had  access  to  the  Queen  of  the 
Scots  since  the  fortunate  failure  of  the  conspiracy. 

All  this,  then,  Marjorie  knew  from  Mr.  Biddell,  who 
seemed  always  to  know  everything;  but  it  was  not  until 
the  evening  on  which  the  judges  arrived  that  she  learned 
the  last  and  extreme  measures  that  would  be  taken  to  es- 
tablish these  suspicions.  She  had  ridden  openly  to  Derby 
so  soon  as  the  news  came  from  there  that  for  the  present 
she  might  be  set  at  liberty. 

The  lawyer  came  into  the  darkening  room  as  the  square 
outside  began  to  grow  quiet,  and  Marjorie  opened  her 
eyes  to  see  who  it  was. 

He  said  nothing  at  first,  but  sat  down  close  beside  her. 
He  knew  she  must  be  told,  but  he  hated  the  telling.  He 
carried  a  little  paper  in  his  hand.  He  would  begin  with 
that  little  bit  of  good  news  first,  he  said  to  himself. 

"  Well,  mistress,"  he  said,  "  I  have  the  order  at  last. 
We  are  to  see  him  to-night.  It  is  '  for  Mr.  Biddell  and  a 
friend.'  " 

She  sat  up,  and  a  little  vitality  came  back  to  her  face; 
for  a  moment  she  almost  looked  as  she  had  looked  in  the 
early  summer. 

"  To-night  ?  "  she  said.     "  And  when " 

"  He  will  not  be  brought  before  my  lords  for  three  or 
four  days  yet.  There  is  a  number  of  cases  to  come  before 
his.  It  will  give  us  those  two  or  three  days,  at  least,  to 
prepare  our  case." 

He  spoke  heavily  and  dejectedly.  Up  to  the  present  he 
had  been  utterly  refused  permission  to  see  his  client;  and 
though  he  knew  the  outlines  of  the  affair  well  enough,  he 


440  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

knew  very  little  of  the  thousand  details  on  which  the  priest 
would  ask  his  advice.  It  was  a  hopeless  affair,  it  appeared 
to  the  lawyer,  in  any  case.  And  now,  with  this  last  piece 
of  tidings,  he  knew  that  there  was,  indeed,  nothing  to  be 
said  except  words  of  encouragement. 

He  listened  with  the  same  heavy  air  to  Mistress  Man- 
ners as  she  said  a  word  or  two  as  to  what  must  be  spoken 
of  to  Robin.  She  was  very  quiet  and  collected,  and  talked 
to  the  point.  But  he  said  nothing. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  she  said. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers.  There  was  still  enough  light 
from  the  windows  for  him  to  see  her  eyes,  and  that  there 
was  a  spark  in  them  that  had  not  been  there  just  now. 
And  it  was  for  him  to  extinguish  it.  ...  He  gripped  his 
courage. 

"  I  have  had  worse  news  than  all,"  he  said. 

Her  lips  moved,  and  a  vibration  went  over  her  face.  Her 
eyes  blinked,  as  at  a  sudden  light. 

"Yes?" 

He  put  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  arm. 

"  You  must  be  courageous,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  worst 
news  that  ever  came  to  me.  It  concerns  one  who  is  come 
from  London  to-day,  and  rode  in  with  my  lords." 

She  could  not  speak,  but  her  great  eyes  entreated  him 
to  finish  her  misery. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  still  pressing  his  hand  on  to  her  arm. 
"  Yes ;  it  is  Mr.  Topcliffe  who  is  come." 

He  felt  the  soft  muscles  harden  like  steel.  .  .  .  There 
was  no  sound  except  the  voices  talking  in  the  square  and 
the  noise  of  footsteps  across  the  pavements.  He  could  not 
look  at  her. 

Then  he  heard  her  draw  a  long  breath  and  breathe  it 
sst  again,  and  her  taut  muscles  relaxed. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  441 

"  We  ...  we  are  all  in  Christ's  hands,"  she  said.  .  .  . 
"  We  must  tell  him." 


Ill 

It  appeared  to  the  girl  as  if  she  were  moving  on  a  kind  of 
set  stage,  with  every  movement  and  incident  designed  be- 
forehand, in  a  play  that  was  itself  a  kind  of  destiny — above 
all,  when  she  went  at  last  into  Robin's  cell  and  saw  him 
standing  there,  and  found  it  to  be  that  in  which  so  long 
ago  she  had  talked  with  Mr.  Thomas  FitzHerbert.  .  .  . 

The  great  realities  were  closing  round  her,  as  irresistible 
as  wheels  and  bars.  There  was  scarcely  a  period  in  her 
life,  scarcely  a  voluntary  action  of  hers  for  good  or  evil, 
that  did  not  furnish  some  part  of  this  vast  machine  in 
whose  grip  both  she  and  her  friend  were  held  so  fast.  No 
calculation  on  her  part  could  have  contrived  so  complete  a 
climax;  yet  hardly  a  calculation  that  had  not  gone  astray 
from  that  end  to  which  she  had  designed  it.  It  was  as 
if  some  monstrous  and  ironical  power  had  been  beneath 
and  about  her  all  her  life  long,  using  those  thoughts  and 
actions  that  she  had  intended  in  one  way  to  the  develop- 
ment of  another. 

First,  it  was  she  that  had  first  turned  her  friend's  mind 
to  the  life  of  a  priest.  Had  she  submitted  to  natural  causes, 
she  would  have  been  his  wife  nine  years  ago;  they  would 
have  been  harassed  no  doubt  and  troubled,  but  no  more. 
It  was  she  again  that  had  encouraged  his  return  to  Derby- 
shire. If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  and  for  the  efforts  she 
had  made  to  do  what  she  thought  good  work  for  God,  he 
might  have  been  sent  elsewhere.  It  was  in  her  house  that 
he  had  been  taken,  and  in  the  very  place  she  had  designed 
for  his  safety.  If  she  had  but  sent  him  on,  as  he  wished, 
back  to  the  hills  again,  he  might  never  have  been  taken  at 


442  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

all.  These,  and  a  score  of  other  thoughts,  had  raced  con- 
tinually through  her  mind;  she  felt  even  as  if  she  were 
responsible  for  the  manner  of  his  taking,  and  for  the  horror 
that  it  had  been  his  father  who  had  accomplished  it;  if 
she  had  said  more,  or  less,  in  the  hall  on  that  dark  morning ; 
if  she  had  not  swooned;  if  she  had  said  bravely:  "  It  is 
your  son,  sir,  who  is  here,"  all  might  have  been  saved. 
And  now  it  was  Topcliffe  who  was  come — (and  she  knew 
all  that  this  signified) — the  very  man  at  whose  mere  bodily 
presence  she  had  sickened  in  the  court  of  the  Tower.  And, 
last,  it  was  she  who  had  to  tell  Robin  of  this. 

So  tremendous,  however,  had  been  the  weight  of  these 
thoughts  upon  her,  crowned  and  clinched  (so  to  say)  by 
finding  that  the  priest  was  even  in  the  same  cell  as  that  in 
which  she  had  visited  the  traitor,  that  there  was  no  room 
any  more  for  bitterness.  Even  as  she  waited,  with  Mr. 
Biddell  behind  her,  as  the  gaoler  fumbled  with  the  keys, 
she  was  aware  that  the  last  breath  of  resentment  had  been 
drawn.  ...  It  was,  indeed,  a  monstrous  Power  that  had 
so  dealt  with  her.  ...  It  was  none  other  than  the  Will  of 
God,  plain  at  last. 

She  knelt  down  for  the  priest's  blessing,  without  speak- 
ing, as  the  door  closed,  and  Mr.  Biddell  knelt  behind  her. 
Then  she  rose  and  went  forward  to  the  stool  and  sa* 
upon  it. 

He  was  hardly  changed  at  all.  He  looked  a  little  whit* 
and  drawn  in  the  wavering  light  of  the  flambeau;  but  his 
clothes  were  orderly  and  clean,  and  his  eyes  as  bright  and 
resolute  as  ever. 

"  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  see  you,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
then  no  more  compliments. 

"  And  what  of  my  father  ?  "  he  added  instantly. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  443 

She  told  him.  Mr.  Audrey  was  in  Derby,  still  sick  from 
his  fit.  He  was  in  Mr.  Columbell's  house.  She  had  not 
seen  him. 

"  Robin,"  she  said  (and  she  used  the  old  name,  utterly 
unknowing  that  she  did  so),  "  we  must  speak  with  Mr. 
Biddell  presently  about  your  case.  But  there  is  a  word  or 
two  I  have  to  say  first  We  can  have  two  hours  here,  if 
you  wish  it." 

Robin  put  his  hands  behind  him  on  to  the  table  and 
jumped  lightly,  so  that  he  sat  on  it,  facing  her. 

"  If  you  will  not  sit  on  the  table,  Mr.  Biddell,  I  fear 
there  is  only  that  block  of  wood." 

He  pointed  to  a  block  of  a  tree  set  on  end.  It  served 
him,  laid  flat,  as  a  pillow.  The  lawyer  went  across 
to  it. 

"  The  judges,  I  hear,  are  come  to-night,"  said  the  priest. 

She  bowed. 

"  Yes ;  but  your  case  will  not  be  up  for  three  or  fear 
days  yet." 

"  Why,  then,  I  shall  have  time " 

She  lifted  her  hand  sharply  a  little  to  check  him, 

"  You  will  not  have  much  time,"  she  said,  and  paused 
again.  A  sharp  contraction  came  and  went  in  the  muscles 
of  her  throat.  It  was  as  if  a  hand  gripped  her  there,  re- 
laxed, and  gripped  again.  She  put  up  her  own  hand 
desperately  to  tear  at  her  collar. 

"  Why,  but "  began  the  priest. 

She  could  bear  it  no  more.  His  resolute  cheerfulness, 
his  frank  astonishment,  were  like  knives  to  her.  She  gave 
ene  cry. 

"Topcliffe  is  come  .  .  .  Topcliffe!  ..."  she  cried. 
Then  she  flung  her  arm  across  the  table  and  dropped  her 
face  on  it.  No  tears  came  from  her  eyes,  but  tearing  sobs 
shook  and  tormented  her. 


444  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

It  was  quite  quiet  after  she  had  spoken.  Even  in  her 
anguish  she  knew  that.  The  priest  did  not  stir  from  where 
he  sat  a  couple  of  feet  away;  only  the  swinging  of  his  feet 
ceased.  She  drove  down  her  convulsions;  they  rose  again; 
she  drove  them  down  once  more.  Then  the  tears  surged 
up,  her  whole  being  relaxed,  and  she  felt  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Marjorie,"  said  the  grave  voice,  as  steady  as  it  had 
ever  been,  "  Marjorie.  This  is  what  we  looked  for,  is  it 
not?  .  .  .  Topcliffe  is  come,  is  he?  Well,  let  him  come. 
He  or  another.  It  is  for  this  that  we  Have  all  looked  since 
the  beginning.  Christ  His  Grace  is  strong  enough,  is  it 
not?  It  hath  been  strong  enough  for  many,  at  least;  and 
He  will  not  surely  take  it  from  me  who  need  it  so 
much.  .  .  ."  (He  spoke  in  pauses,  but  his  voice  never 
faltered.)  "  I  have  prayed  for  that  grace  ever  since  I 
have  been  here.  .  .  .  He  hath  given  me  great  peace  in 
this  place.  ...  I  think  He  will  give  it  me  to  the  end.  .  .  . 
You  must  pray,  my  .  .  .  my  child;  you  must  not  cry  like 
that" 

(She  lifted  her  agonized  face  for  a  moment,  then  she  let 
it  fall  again.  It  seemed  as  if  he  knew  the  very  thoughts 
of  her.) 

"  This  all  seems  very  perfect  to  me,"  he  went  on.  "  It 
was  yourself  who  first  turned  me  to  this  life,  and  you  knew 
surely  what  you  did.  I  knew,  at  least,  all  the  while,  I 
think;  and  I  have  never  ceased  to  thank  God.  And  it  was 
through  your  hands  that  the  letter  came  to  me  to  go  to 
Fotheringay.  And  it  was  in  your  house  that  I  was  taken. 
.  .  .  And  it  was  Mr.  Maine's  beads  that  they  found  on  me 
when  they  searched  me  here — the  pair  of  beads  you  gave 
me." 

Again  she  stared  at  him,  blind  and  bewildered. 

He  went  on  steadily: 


COME  RACK!  COME  ROPE!      4,4,5 

"  And  now  it  is  you  again  who  bring  me  the  first  news  of 
my  passion.  It  is  yourself,  first  and  last,  under  God,  that 
have  brought  me  all  these  graces  and  crosses.  And  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart.  .  .  .  But  you  must  pray  for  me  to 
the  end,  and  after  it,  too." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


"  WATER,"  said  a  sharp  voice,  pricking  through  the  enor- 
mous thickness  of  the  bloodshot  dark  that  had  come  down 
on  him.  There  followed  a  sound  of  floods ;  then  a  sense  of 
sudden  coolness,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  once  more,  and 
became  aware  of  unbearable  pain  in  arms  and  feet.  Again 
the  whirling  dark,  striped  with  blood  colour,  fell  on  him 
like  a  blanket;  again  the  sound  of  waters  falling  and  the 
sense  of  coolness,  and  again  he  opened  his  eyes. 

For  a  minute  or  two  it  was  all  that  he  could  do  to  hold 
himself  in  consciousness.  It  appeared  to  him  a  necessity 
to  do  so.  He  could  see  a  smoke-stained  roof  of  beams 
and  rafters,  and  on  these  he  fixed  his  eyes,  thinking  that  he 
could  hold  himself  so,  as  by  thin,  wiry  threads  of  sight, 
from  falling  again  into  the  pit  where  all  was  black  or 
blood-colour.  The  pain  was  appalling,  but  he  thought  he 
had  gripped  it  at  last,  and  could  hold  it  so,  like  a  wrestler. 

As  the  pain  began  to  resolve  itself  into  throbs  and  stabs, 
from  the  continuous  strain  in  which  at  first  it  had  shown 
itself — a  strain  that  was  like  a  shrill  horn  blowing,  or  a 
blaze  of  bluish  light — he  began  to  see  more,  and  to  under- 
stand a  little.  There  were  four  or  five  faces  looking  down 
on  him:  one  was  the  face  of  a  man  he  had  seen  somewhere 
in  an  inn  ...  it  was  at  Fotheringay;  it  was  my  lord 
Shrewsbury's  man.  Another  was  a  lean  face;  a  black  hat 
came  and  went  behind  it;  the  lips  were  drawn  in  a  sort  of 
smile,  so  that  he  could  see  the  teeth.  .  .  .  Then  he  perceived 
next  that  he  himself  was  lying  in  a  kind  of  shallow  trough 

446 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  447 

of  wood  upon  the  floor.    He  could  see  his  bare  feet  raised 
a  little  and  tied  with  cords. 

Then,  one  by  one,  these  sights  fitted  themselves  into  one 
another  and  made  sense.  He  remembered  that  he  was  in 
Derby  gaol— not  in  his  own  cell;  that  the  lean  face  was  of 
a  man  called  Topcliffe;  that  a  physician  was  there  as  well 
as  the  others ;  that  they  had  been  questioning  him  on  various 
points,  and  that  some  of  these  points  he  had  answered, 
while  others  he  had  not,  and  must  not.  Some  of  them  con- 
cerned her  Grace  of  the  Scots.  .  .  .  These  he  had  answered. 
Then,  again,  association  came  back.  .  .  . 

"  As  Thy  arms,  O  Christ  .  .  ."  he  whispered. 

"  Now  then,"  came  the  sharp  voice  in  his  ear,  so  close 

and  harsh  as  to  distress  him.    "  These  questions  again.  .  .  . 

Were  there  any  other  places  besides  at  Padley  and  Booth's 

Edge,  in  the  parish  of  Hathersage,  where  you  said  mass  ?  " 

"  .  .  .  O  Christ,  were  extended  on  the  Cross "  began 

the  tortured  man  dreamily.     "Ah-h-h!"  .  .  . 

It  was  a  scream,  whispered  rather  than  shrieked,  that 
was  torn  from  him  by  the  sharpness  of  the  agony.  His 
body  had  lifted  from  the  floor  without  will  of  his  own, 
twisting  a  little;  and  what  seemed  as  strings  of  fiery  pain 
had  shot  upwards  from  his  feet  and  downwards  from  his 
wrists  as  the  roller  was  suddenly  jerked  again.  He  hung 
there  perhaps  ten  or  fifteen  seconds,  conscious  only  of  the 
blinding  pain — questions,  questioners,  roof  and  faces  all 
gone  and  drowned  again  in  a  whirling  tumult  of  darkness 
and  red  streaks.  The  sweat  poured  again  suddenly  from 
his  whole  body.  .  .  .  Then  again  he  sank  relaxed  upon  the 
floor,  and  the  pulses  beat  in  his  head,  and  he  thought  that 
Marjorie  and  her  mother  and  his  own  father  were  all  look- 
ing at  him.  .  .  . 

He  heard  presently  the  same  voice  talking: 

"  — and  answer  the  questions  that  are  put  to  you.  .  .  . 


448  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

Now  then,  we  will  begin  the  others,  if  it  please  you  better. 
...  In  what  month  was  it  that  you  first  became  privy  to 
the  plot  against  her  Grace  ?  " 

"  Wait !  "  whispered  the  priest.  "  Wait,  and  I  will 
answer  that."  (He  understood  that  there  was  a  trap  here. 
The  question  had  been  framed  differently  last  time.  But 
his  mind  was  all  a- whirl;  and  he  feared  he  might  answer 
wrongly  if  he  could  not  collect  himself.  He  still  wondered 
why  so  many  friends  of  his  were  in  the  room — even  Father 
Campion.  .  .  .) 

He  drew  a  breath  again  presently,  and  tried  to  speak; 
but  his  voice  broke  like  a  shattered  trumpet,  and  he  could 
not  command  it.  ...  He  must  whisper. 

"  It  was  in  August,  I  think.  ...  I  think  it  was  August, 
two  years  ago."  .  .  . 

"  August  .  .  .  you  mean  May  or  April." 

"  No ;  it  was  August.  ...  At  least,  all  that  I  know  of 

the  plot  was  when  .  .  .  when "  (His  thoughts  became 

confused  again;  it  was  like  strings  of  wool,  he  thought, 
twisted  violently  together;  a  strand  snapped  now  and  again. 
He  made  a  violent  effort  and  caught  an  end  as  it  was 
slipping  away.)  "It  was  in  August,  I  think;  the  day  that 

Mr.  Babington  fled,  that  he  wrote  to  me ;  and  sent  me " 

(He  paused:  he  became  aware  that  here,  too,  lurked  a  trap 
if  he  were  to  say  he  had  seen  Mary;  he  would  surely  be 
asked  what  he  had  seen  her  for,  and  his  priesthood  might 
be  so  proved  against  him.  .  .  .  He  could  not  remember 
whether  that  had  been  proved;  and  so  ...  would  Father 
Campion  advise  him  perhaps  whether  .  .  .) 

The  voice  jarred  again;  and  startled  him  into  a  flash  of 
coherence.  He  thought  he  saw  a  way  out. 

"  Well?  "  snapped  the  voice.  "  Sent  you?  .  .  .  Sent  you 
whither  ?  " 

"  Sent  me  to  Chartley ;  where  I  saw  her  Grace  .  .  .  her 


COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE!  449 

Grace  of  the  Scots;  and  .  .  .  '  As  Thy  arms,  O 
Christ 

"  Now  then;  now  then !  .  .  .  So  you  saw  her  Grace? 

And  what  was  that  for  ?  " 

"  I  saw  her  Grace  ...  and  ...  and  told  her  what  Mr. 
Babington  had  told  me." 

"What  was  that,  then?" 

"  That  .  .  .  that  he  was  her  servant  till  death;  and  .  .  . 
and  a  thousand  if  he  had  them.  And  so,  '  As  Thy  arms, 

"  Water,"  barked  the  voice. 

Again  came  the  rush  as  of  cataracts;  and  a  sensation 
of  drowning.  There  followed  an  instant's  glow  of  life; 
and  then  the  intolerable  pain  came  back;  and  the  heavy, 
red-streaked  darkness.  . 


II 

He  found  himself,  after  some  period,  lying  more  easilys 
He  could  not  move  hand  or  foot.  His  body  only  appeared 
to  live.  From  his  shoulders  to  his  thighs  he  was  alive; 
the  rest  was  nothing.  But  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  that 
his  arms  were  laid  by  his  side;  and  that  he  was  no  longer 
in  the  wooden  trough.  He  wondered  at  his  hands;  he 
wondered  even  if  they  were  his  .  .  .  they  were  of  an  un- 
usual colour  and  bigness ;  and  there  was  something  like  a 
tight-fitting  bracelet  round  each  wrist.  Then  he  perceived 
that  he  was  shirtless  and  hoseless;  and  that  the  bracelets 
were  not  bracelets,  but  rings  of  swollen  flesh.  But  there 
was  no  longer  any  pain  or  even  sensation  in  them;  and 
he  was  aware  that  his  mouth  glowed  as  if  he  had  drunk 
ardent  spirits. 

He  was  considering  all  this,  slowly,  like  a  child  contem~ 
plating  a  new  toy.  Then  there  came  something  between 


450  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

him  and  the  light;  he  saw  a  couple  of  faces  eyeing  him. 
Then  the  voice  began  again,  at  first  confused  and  buzzing, 
then  articulate;  and  he  remembered. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  the  voice,  "  you  have  had  but  a  taste 
of  it.  .  .  ."  ("  A  taste  of  it;  a  taste  of  it."  The  phrase 
repeated  itself  like  the  catch  of  a  song.  .  .  .  When  he  re- 
gained his  attention,  the  sentence  had  moved  on.) 

"...  these  questions.  I  will  put  them  to  you  again 
from  the  beginning.  You  will  give  your  answer  to  each. 
And  if  my  lord  is  not  satisfied,  we  must  try  again." 

"  My  lord !  "  thought  the  priest.  He  rolled  his  eyes 
round  a  little  further.  (He  dared  not  move  his  head;  the 
sinews  of  his  throat  burned  like  red-hot  steel  cords  at  the 
thought  of  it.)  And  he  saw  a  little  table  floating  some- 
where in  the  dark ;  a  candle  burned  on  it ;  and  a  melancholy 
face  with  dreamy  eyes  was  brightly  illuminated.  .  .  .  That 
was  my  lord  Shrewsbury,  he  considered.  .  .  . 

"...  in  what  month  that  you  first  became  privy  to  the 
plot  against  her  Grace  ?  " 

(Sense  was  coming  back  to  him  again  now.  He  remem- 
bered what  he  had  said  just  now.) 

"  It  was  in  August,"  he  whispered,  "  in  August,  I  think; 
two  years  ago.  Mr.  Babington  wrote  to  me  of  it." 

"  And  you  went  to  the  Queen  of  the  Scots,  you  say?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  what  did  you  there  ?  " 

"  I  gave  the  message." 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 

"...  That  Mr.  Babington  was  her  servant  always ;  that 
he  regretted  nothing,  save  that  he  had  failed.  He  begged 
her  to  pray  for  his  soul,  and  for  all  that  had  been  with  him 
in  the  enterprise." 

(It  appeared  to  him  that  he  was  astonishingly  voluble, 
all  at  once.  He  reflected  that  he  must  be  careful.') 


COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE!  451 

"  And  what  did  she  say  to  that?  " 

"  She  declared  herself  guiltless  of  the  plot  .  .  .  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  it;  and  that " 

"  Now  then;  now  then.  You  expect  my  lord  to  believe 
that?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  But  it  was  what  was  said." 

"  And  you  profess  that  you  knew  nothing  of  the  plot  till 
then?" 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  it  till  then,"  whispered  the  priest 
steadily.  "  But " 

(A  face  suddenly  blotted  out  more  of  the  light.) 

"Yes?" 

"  Anthony — I  mean  Mr.  Babington — had  spoken  to  me 
a  great  while  before — in  ...  in  some  village  inn.  ...  I 
forget  where.  It  was  when  I  was  a  lad.  He  asked  whether 
I  would  join  in  some  enterprise.  He  did  not  say  what  it 
was.  .  .  .  But  I  thought  it  to  be  against  the  Queen  of 
England.  .  .  .  And  I  would  not."  .  .  . 

He  closed  his  eyes  again.  There  had  begun  a  slow  heat 
of  pain  in  ankles  and  wrists,  not  wholly  unbearable,  and 
a  warmth  began  to  spread  in  his  body.  A  great  shudder  or 
two  shook  him.  The  voice  said  something  he  could  not 
hear.  Then  a  metal  rim  was  pressed  to  his  mouth;  and 
a  stream  of  something  at  once  icy  and  fiery  ran  into  his 
mouth  and  out  at  the  corners.  He  swallowed  once  or  twice ; 
and  his  senses  came  back. 

"You  do  not  expect  us  to  believe  all  that!"  came  the 
voice. 

"  It  is  the  truth,  for  all  that,"  murmured  the  priest. 

The  next  question  came  sudden  as  a  shot  fired: 

"  You  were  at  Fotheringay?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  In  what  house?  " 

"  I  was  in  the  inn — the  '  New  Inn/  I  think  it  f»T 


452  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

"And  you  spoke  with  her  Grace  again?" 

"  No ;  I  could  not  get  at  her.     But " 

"Well?" 

"  I  was  in  the  court  of  the  castle  when  her  Grace  was 
executed." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  voices.  He  thought  that  some- 
one had  moved  over  to  the  table  where  my  lord  sat;  but 
he  could  not  move  his  eyes  again,  the  labour  was  too 
great. 

"  Who  was  with  you  in  the  inn — as  your  friend,  I 
mean?  " 

"  A  ...  a  young  man  was  with  me.  His  name  was 
Merton.  He  is  in  France,  I  think." 

"  And  he  knew  you  to  be  a  priest?  "  came  the  voice  with- 
out an  instant's  hesitation. 

"  Why "     Then  he  stopped  short,  just  in  time. 

"Well?" 

"  How  should  he  think  that?  "  aoked  Robin. 

There  was  a  laugh  somewhere.  Then  the  voice  went  on, 
almost  good-humouredly. 

"  Mr.  Alban ;  what  is  the  use  of  this  fencing  ?  You  were 
taken  in  a  hiding-hole  with  the  very  vestments  at  your  feet. 
We  know  you  to  be  a  priest.  We  are  not  seeking  to  entrap 
you  in  that,  for  there  is  no  need.  But  there  are  other  mat- 
ters altogether  which  we  must  have  from  you.  You  have 
been  made  priest  beyond  the  seas,  in  Rheims " 

"  I  swear  to  you  that  I  was  not,"  whispered  Robin  in- 
stantly and  eagerly,  thinking  he  saw  a  loophole. 

"  Well,  then,  at  Chalons,  or  Douay:  it  matters  not  where. 
That  is  not  our  affair  to-day.  All  that  will  be  dealt  with 
before  my  lords  at  the  Assizes.  But  what  we  must  have 
from  you  now  is  your  answer  to  some  other  questions." 

"  Assuming  me  to  be  a  priest  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Alban,  I  will  talk  no  more  on  that  point.     I  tell 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  453 

you  we  know  it.  But  we  must  have  answers  on  other 
points.  I  will  come  back  to  Merton  presently.  These  are 
the  questions.  I  will  read  them  through  to  you.  Then 
we  will  deal  with  them  one  by  one." 

There  was  the  rustle  of  a  paper.  An  extraordinary  de- 
sire for  sleep  came  down  on  the  priest;  it  was  only  by 
twitching  his  head  a  little,  and  causing  himself  acute  shoots 
of  pain  in  his  neck  that  he  could  keep  himself  awake.  He 
knew  that  he  must  not  let  his  attention  wander  again.  He 
remembered  clearly  how  that  Father  Campion  was  dead, 
and  that  Marjorie  could  not  have  been  here  just  now.  .  .  . 
He  must  take  great  care  not  to  become  so  much  confused 
again. 

"  The  first  question,"  read  the  voice  slowly,  "  is,  Whether 
you  have  said  mass  in  other  places  beside  Padley  and  the 
manor  at  Booth's  Edge.  We  know  that  you  must  have 
done  so;  but  we  must  have  the  names  of  the  places, 
and  of  the  parties  present,  so  far  as  you  can  remember 
them. 

"  The  second  question  is,  the  names  of  all  those  other 
priests  with  whom  you  have  spoken  in  England,  since  you 
came  from  Rheims;  and  the  names  of  all  other  students, 
not  yet  priests,  or  scarcely,  whom  you  knew  at  Rheims, 
and  who  are  for  England. 

"  The  third  question  is,  the  names  of  all  those  whom  you 
know  to  be  friends  of  Mr.  John  FitzHerbert,  Mr.  Bassett 
and  Mr.  Fenton — not  being  priests ;  but  Papists. 

"  These  three  questions  will  do  as  a  beginning.  When 
you  have  answered  these,  there  is  a  number  more.  Now, 
sir." 

The  last  two  words  were  rapped  out  sharply.  Robin 
opened  his  eyes. 

"  As  to  the  first  two  questions,"  he  whispered.     "  These 


454  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

assume  that  I  am  a  priest  myself.  Yet  that  is  what  yov 
have  to  prove  against  me.  The  third  question  concerns 
.  .  .  concerns  my  loyalty  to  my  friends.  But  I  will  tell 
you " 

"  Yes?  "  (The  voice  was  sharp  and  eager.) 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  names  of  two  friends  of  each  of  those 
gentlemen  you  have  named." 

A  pen  suddenly  scratched  on  paper.  He  could  not  see 
who  held  it. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  the  voice  again. 

"  Well,  sir.  The  names  of  two  of  the  friends  of  Mr. 
FitzHerbert  are,  Mr.  Bassett  and  Mr.  Fenton.  The 
names " 

"  Bah !  "  (The  word  sounded  like  the  explosion  of  a 
gun.) 

"  You  are  playing  with  us " 

"  The  names,"  murmured  the  priest  slowly,  "  of  two  of 
Mr.  Fenton's  friends  are  Mr.  FitzHerbert  and " 

A  face,  upside-down,  thrust  itself  suddenly  almost  into 
his.  He  could  feel  the  hot  breath  on  his  forehead. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Alban.  You  are  fooling  us.  Do  you 
think  this  is  a  Christmas  game?  I  tell  you  it  is  not  yet 
three  o'clock.  There  are  three  hours  more  yet " 

A  smooth,  sad  voice  interrupted.  (The  reversed  face 
vanished.) 

"  You  have  threatened  the  prisoner,"  it  said,  "  but  you 
have  not  yet  told  him  the  alternative." 

"  No,  my  lord.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  lord.  Listen,  Mr.  Alban. 
My  lord  here  says  that  if  you  will  answer  these  questions 
he  will  use  his  influence  on  your  behalf.  Your  life  is  for- 
feited, as  you  know  very  well.  There  is  not  a  dog's  chance 
for  you.  Yet,  if  you  will  but  answer  these  three  questions 

— and  no  more (No  more,  my  lord?) — Yes;  these  three 

questions  and  no  more,  my  lord  will  use  his  influence  fo# 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  455 

you.  He  can  promise  nothing,  he  says,  but  that;  but  my 
lord's  influence — well,  we  need  say  no  more  on  that  point. 
If  you  refuse  to  answer,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  yet 
three  hours  more  to-day;  there  is  all  to-morrow,  and  the 
next  day.  And,  after  that,  your  case  will  be  before  my  lords 
at  the  Assizes.  You  have  had  but  a  taste  of  what  we  can 
do.  ...  And  then,  sir,  my  lord  does  not  wish  to  be 
harsh.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Robin  was  counting  up  the  hours.  It  was  three  o'clock 
now.  Then  he  had  been  on  the  rack,  with  intervals,  since 
nine  o'clock.  That  was  six  hours.  There  was  but  half 
that  again  for  to-day.  Then  would  come  the  night.  He 
need  not  consider  further  than  that.  .  .  .  But  he  must 
guard  his  tongue.  It  might  speak,  in  spite 

"Well,  Mr.  Alban?" 

He  opened  his  eyes. 

"Well,  sir?" 

"  Which  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

The  priest  smiled  and  closed  his  eyes  again.  If  he  could 
but  fix  his  attention  on  the  mere  pain,  he  thought,  and  re- 
fuse utterly  to  consider  the  way  of  escape,  he  might  be 
able  to  keep  his  unruly  tongue  in  check. 

"  You  will  not,  then  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  appalling  pain  ran  through  him  again  like  fiery 
snakes  of  iron— from  wrist  to  shoulders,  from  ankles  to 
thighs,  as  the  hands  seized  him  and  lifted  him.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  relief  as  he  sank  down 
once  more  into  the  trough  of  torture.  He  could  feel  that  his 
feet  were  being  handled,  but  it  appeared  as  if  nothing 
touched  his  flesh.  He  gave  a  great  sighing  moan  as  his 


456  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

arms  were  drawn  back  over  his  head ;  and  the  sweat  poured 
again  from  all  over  his  body. 

Then,  as  the  cords  tightened: 

"  As  Thy  arms,  O  Christ,  were  extended  .  .  ."  he  whis- 
pered. 


CHAPTER  IX 


A  GREAT  murmuring  crowd  filled  every  flat  spot  of  ground 
and  pavement  and  parapet.  They  stood  even  on  the  balus- 
trade of  St.  Mary's  Bridge;  there  were  fringes  of  them 
against  the  sky  on  the  edges  of  roofs  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  No  flat  surface  was  to  be  seen  anywhere  except  on 
the  broad  reach  of  the  river,  and  near  the  head  of  the 
bridge,  in  the  circular  space,  ringed  by  steel  caps  and 
pike-points,  where  the  gallows  and  ladder  rose.  Close  be- 
side them  a  column  of  black  smoke  rose  heavily  into  the 
morning  air,  bellying  away  into  the  clear  air.  A  continual 
steady  low  murmur  of  talking  went  up  continually, 

There  had  been  no  hanging  within  the  memory  of  any 
that  had  roused  such  interest.  Derbyshire  men  had  been 
hung  often  enough;  a  criminal  usually  had  a  dozen  friends 
at  least  in  the  crowd  to  whom  he  shouted  from  the  ladder. 
Seminary  priests  had  been  executed  often  enough  now  to 
have  destroyed  the  novelty  of  it  for  the  mob;  why,  three 
had  been  done  to  death  here  little  more  than  two  months 
ago  in  this  very  place.  They  gave  no  sport,  certainly ;  they 
died  too  quietly;  and  what  peculiar  interest  there  was  in  it 
lay  in  the  contemplation  of  the  fact  that  it  was  for  religion 
that  they  died.  Gentlemen,  too,  had  been  hanged  here  now 
and  then — polished  persons,  dressed  in  their  best,  who  took 
off  their  outer  clothes  carefully,  and  in  one  or  two  cases 
had  handed  them  to  a  servant;  gentlemen  with  whom  the 
sheriff  shook  hands  before  the  end,  who  eyed  the  mob  im- 

457 


458  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

perturbably  or  affected  even  not  to  be  aware  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  vulgar.  But  this  hanging  was  sublime. 

First,  he  was  a  Derbyshire  man,  a  seminary  priest  and  a 
gentleman — three  points.  Yet  this  was  no  more  than  the 
groundwork  of  his  surpassing  interest.  For,  next,  he  had 
been  racked  beyond  belief.  It  was  for  three  days  before 
his  sentence  that  Mr.  Topcliffe  himself  had  dealt  with  him. 
(Yes,  Mr.  Topcliffe  was  the  tall  man  that  had  his  rooms 
in  the  market-place,  and  always  went  abroad  with  two 
servants.  .  .  .  He  was  to  have  Padley,  too,  it  was  said,  as 
a  reward  for  all  his  zeal.)  Of  course,  young  Mr.  Audrey 
(for  that  was  his  real  name — not  Alban;  that  was  a  Popish 
alias  such  as  they  all  used) — Mr.  Audrey  had  not  been  on 
the  rack  for  the  whole  of  every  day.  But  he  had  been  in 
the  rack-house  eight  or  nine  hours  on  the  first  day,  four  the 
second,  and  six  or  seven  the  third.  And  he  had  not  answered 
one  single  question  differently  from  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  answered  it  before  ever  he  had  been  on  the  rack  at 
all.  (There  was  a  dim  sense  of  pride  with  regard  to  this, 
in  many  Derbyshire  minds.  A  Derbyshire  man,  it  ap- 
peared, was  more  than  a  match  for  even  a  Londoner  and  a 
sworn  servant  of  her  Grace.)  It  was  said  that  Mr.  Audrey 
would  have  to  be  helped  up  the  ladder,  even  though  he  had 
not  been  racked  for  a  whole  week  since  his  sentence. 

Next,  the  trial  itself  had  been  full  of  interest.  A  Papist 
priest  was,  of  course,  fair  game.  (Why,  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada itself  had  been  full  of  them,  it  was  said,  all  come  to 
subdue  England.  .  .  .  Well,  they  had  had  their  bellyful  of 
salt  water  and  English  iron  by  now.)  But  this  Papisher 
had  hit  back  and  given  sport.  He  had  flatly  refused  to  be 
caught,  though  the  questions  were  swift  and  subtle  enough 
to  catch  any  clerk.  Certainly  he  had  not  denied  that  he 
was  a  priest ;  but  he  had  said  that  that  was  what  the  Crown 
must  prove :  he  was  not  there  as  a  witness,  he  had  said,  but 


COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE!  459 

as  a  prisoner;  he  had  even  entreated  them  to  respect  their 
own  legal  dignities !  But  there  had  been  a  number  of  things 
against  him,  and  even  if  none  of  these  had  been  proved, 
still,  the  mere  sum  of  them  was  enough;  there  could  be  no 
smoke  without  fire,  said  the  proverb-quoters.  It  was  al- 
leged that  he  had  been  privy  to  the  plot  against  the  Queen 
(the  plot  of  young  Mr.  Babington,  who  had  sold  his  house 
down  there  a  week  or  two  only  before  his  arrest) ;  he  had 
denied  this,  but  he  had  allowed  that  he  had  spoken  with 
her  Grace  immediately  after  the  plot;  and  this  was  a  highly 
suspicious  circumstance:  if  he  allowed  so  much  as  this,  the 
f*st  might  be  safely  presumed.  Again,  it  was  said  that 
he  had  had  part  in  attempts  to  free  the  Queen  of  the 
Scots,  even  from  Fotheringay  itself;  and  had  been  in  the 
castle  court,  with  a  number  of  armed  servants,  at  the  very 
time  of  her  execution.  Again,  if  he  allowed  that  he  had 
been  present,  even  though  he  denied  the  armed  servants, 
the  rest  might  be  presumed.  Finally,  since  he  were  a 
priest,  and  had  seen  her  Grace  at  a  time  when  there  was 
no  chaplain  allowed  to  her,  it  was  certain  that  he  must  have 
ministered  their  Popish  superstitions  to  her,  and  this  was 
neither  denied  nor  affirmed:  he  had  said  to  this  that  they 
had  yet  to  prove  him  a  priest  at  all.  The  very  spectacle 
of  the  trial,  too,  had  been  remarkable;  for,  first,  there  was 
the  extraordinary  appearance  of  the  prisoner,  bent  double 
like  an  old  man,  with  the  face  of  a  dead  one,  though  he 
could  not  be  above  thirty  years  old  at  the  very  most;  and 
then  there  was  the  unusual  number  of  magistrates  present 
in  court  besides  the  judges,  and  my  lord  Shrewsbury  him- 
self, who  had  presided  at  the  racking.  It  was  one  of  my 
lord's  men,  too,  that  had  helped  to  identify  the  prisoner. 
But  the  supreme  interest  lay  in  even  more  startling  cir- 
cumstances— in  the  history  of  Mistress  Manners,  who  was 
present  through  the  trial  with  Mr.  Biddell  the  lawyer,  and 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

who  had  obtained  at  least  two  interviews  with  the  prisoner, 
one  before  the  torture  and  the  other  after  sentence.  It 
was  in  Mistress  Manners'  house  at  Booth's  Edge  that  the 
priest  had  been  taken;  and  it  was  freely  rumoured  that  al- 
though Mr.  Audrey  had  once  been  betrothed  to  her,  yet 
that  she  had  released  and  sent  him  herself  to  Rheims,  and 
all  to  end  like  this.  And  yet  she  could  bear  to  come  and 
see  him  again;  and,  it  was  said,  would  be  present  some- 
where in  the  crowd  even  at  his  death. 

Finally,  the  tale  of  how  the  priest  had  been  taken  by  his 
own  father — old  Mr.  Audrey  of  Matstead — him  that  was 
now  lying  sick  in  Mr.  ColumbelTs  house — this  put  the 
crown  on  all  the  rest.  A  hundred  rumours  flew  this  way  and 
that:  one  said  that  the  old  man  had  known  nothing  of  his 
son's  presence  in  the  country,  but  had  thought  him  to  be  still 
in  foreign  parts.  Another,  that  he  knew  him  to  be  in 
England,  but  not  that  he  was  in  the  county;  a  third,  that 
he  knew  very  well  who  it  was  in  the  house  he  went  to  search, 
and  had  searched  it  and  taken  him  on  purpose  to  set  his 
own  loyalty  beyond  question.  Opinions  differed  as  to  the 
propriety  of  such  an  action.  .  .  . 

So  then  the  great  crowd  of  heads — men  from  all  the 
countryside,  from  farms  and  far-off  cottages  and  the  wild 
hills,  mingling  with  the  townsfolk — this  crowd,  broken  up 
into  levels  and  patches  by  river  and  houses  and  lanes,  moved 
to  and  fro  in  the  October  sunshine,  and  sent  up,  with  the 
column  of  smoke  that  eddied  out  from  beneath  the  bubbling 
tar-cauldron  by  the  gallows,  a  continual  murmur  of  talking, 
like  the  sound  of  slow-moving  wheels  of  great  carts. 


COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE!  461 

II 

He  felt  dazed  and  blind,  yet  with  a  kind  of  lightness  too 
as  he  came  out  of  the  gaol-gate  into  that  packed  mass  of 
faces,  held  back  by  guards  from  the  open  space  where  the 
horse  and  the  hurdle  waited.  A  dozen  persons  or  so  were 
within  the  guards;  he  knew  several  of  them  by  sight;  two 
or  three  were  magistrates;  another  was  an  officer;  two  were 
ministers  with  their  Bibles. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  he  were  afraid.  Fear  was  there, 
indeed — he  knew  well  enough  that  in  his  case,  at  any  rate, 
the  execution  would  be  done  as  the  law  ordered;  that  he 
would  be  cut  down  before  he  had  time  to  die,  and  that  the 
butchery  would  be  done  on  him  while  he  would  still  be 
conscious  of  it.  Death,  too,  was  fearful,  in  any  case.  . 
Yet  there  were  so  many  other  things  to  occupy  him — there 
was  the  exhilarating  knowledge  that  he  was  to  die  for  his 
faith  and  nothing  else ;  for  they  had  offered  him  his  life  if 
he  would  go  to  church;  and  they  had  proved  nothing  as  to 
any  complicity  of  his  in  any  plot,  and  how  could  they,  since 
there  was  none  ?  There  was  the  pain  of  his  tormented  body 
to  occupy  him;  a  pain  that  had  passed  from  the  acute 
localized  agonies  of  snapped  sinews  and  wrenched  joints 
into  one  vast  physical  misery  that  soaked  his  whole  body 
as  in  a  flood ;  a  pain  that  never  ceased ;  of  which  he  dreamed 
darkly,  as  a  hungry  man  dreams  of  food  which  he  cannot 
eat,  to  which  he  awoke  again  twenty  times  a  night  as  to  a 
companion  nearer  to  him  than  the  thoughts  with  which  he 
attempted  to  distract  himself.  This  pain,  at  least,  would 
have  an  end  presently.  Again,  there  was  an  intermittent 
curiosity  as  to  how  and  what  would  befall  his  flying  soul 
when  the  butchery  was  done.  "  To  sup  in  Heaven  "  was  a 
phrase  used  by  one  of  his  predecessors  on  the  threshold  of 
death.  .  .  .  For  what  did  that  stand?  .  .  .  And  at  other 


462  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

times  there  had  been  no  curiosity,  but  an  acquiescence  in 
old  childish  images.  Heaven  at  such  times  appeared  to  him 
as  a  summer  garden,  with  pavilions,  and  running  water 
and  the  song  of  birds  ...  a  garden  where  he  would  lie  at 
ease  at  last  from  his  torn  body  and  that  feverish  mind, 
which  was  all  that  his  pain  had  left  to  him;  where  Mary 
went,  gracious  and  motherly,  with  her  virgins  about  her; 
where  the  Crucified  Lamb  of  God  would  talk  with  him  as 
a  man  talks  with  his  friend,  and  allow  him  to  lie  at  the 
Pierced  Feet  .  .  .  where  the  glory  of  God  rested  like 
eternal  sunlight  on  all  that  was  there;  on  the  River  of 
Life,  and  the  wood  of  the  trees  that  are  for  the  healing 
of  all  hurts. 

And,  last  of  all,  there  was  a  confused  medley  of  more 
human  thoughts  that  concerned  persons  other  than  himself. 
He  could  not  remember  all  the  persons  clearly ;  their  names 
and  their  faces  came  and  went.  Marjorie,  his  father,  Mr. 
John  FitzHerbert  and  Mr.  Anthony,  who  had  been  allowed 
to  come  and  see  him;  Dick  Sampson,  who  had  come  in 
with  Marjorie  the  second  time  and  had  kissed  his  hands. 
One  thing  at  least  he  remembered  clearly  as  he  stood  here, 
and  that  was  how  he  had  bidden  Mistress  Manners,  even 
now,  not  to  go  overseas  and  become  a  nun,  as  she  had 
wished;  but  rather  to  continue  her  work  in  Derbyshire,  if 
she  could. 

So  then  he  stood,  bent  double  on  two  sticks,  blinking  and 
peering  out  at  the  faces,  wondering  whether  it  was  a  roar 
of  anger  or  welcome  or  compassion  that  had  broken  out  at 
his  apparition,  and  smiling — smiling  piteously,  not  of  de- 
liberation, but  because  the  muscles  of  his  mouth  so  moved, 
and  he  could  not  contract  them  again. 

He  understood  presently  that  he  was  to  lie  down  on  the 
hurdle,  with  his  head  to  the  horses'  heels. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  463 

This  was  a  great  business,  to  be  undertaken  with  care. 
He  gave  his  two  sticks  to  a  man,  and  took  his  arm.  Then 
he  kneeled,  clinging  to  the  arm  as  a  child  to  a  swimmer's 
in  a  rough  sea,  and  sank  gently  down.  But  he  could  not 
straighten  his  legs,  so  they  allowed  him  to  lie  half  side- 
ways, and  tied  him  so.  It  was  amazingly  uncomfortable, 
and,  before  he  was  settled,  twice  the  sweat  suddenly  poured 
from  his  face  as  he  found  some  new  channel  of  pain  in 
his  body.  .  .  . 

An  order  or  two  was  issued  in  a  loud,  shouting  voice; 
there  was  a  great  confusion  and  scuffling,  and  the  crack  of 
a  whip.  Then,  with  a  jerk  that  tore  his  whole  being,  he 
was  flicked  from  his  place;  the  pain  swelled  and  swelled 
till  there  seemed  no  more  room  for  it  in  all  God's  world; 
and  he  closed  his  eyes  so  as  not  to  see  the  house-roofs  and 
the  faces  and  the  sky  whirl  about  in  that  mad  jigging 
dance.  .  .  . 

After  that  he  knew  very  little  of  the  journey.  For  the 
most  part  his  eyes  were  tight  closed;  he  sobbed  aloud  half 
a  dozen  times  as  the  hurdle  lifted  and  dropped  over  rough 
places  in  the  road.  Two  or  three  times  he  opened  his 
eyes  to  see  what  the  sounds  signified,  especially  a  loud, 
bellowing  voice  almost  in  his  ear  that  cried  texts  of  Scrip- 
ture at  him. 

"  We  have  but  one  Mediator  between  God  and  man,  the 
Man  Christ  Jesus.  .  .  ." 

"  We  then,  being  justified  by  faith  ...  For  if  by  the 
rvorks  of  the  Law  we  are  justified.  .  .  ." 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  that,  and  there  was  the  face 
of  one  of  the  ministers  bobbing  against  the  sky,  flushed  and 
breathless,  yet  indomitable,  bawling  aloud  as  he  trotted 
along  to  keep  pace  with  the  horse. 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes  again.  He  knew  that  he,  too, 
could  bandy  texts  if  that  were  what  was  required.  Per- 


464  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

haps,  if  he  were  a  better  man  and  more  mortified,  he  might 
be  able  to  do  so  as  the  martyrs  sometimes  had  done.  But 
he  could  not  ...  he  would  have  a  word  to  say  presently 
perhaps,  if  it  were  permitted;  but  not  now.  His  pain  oc- 
cupied him;  he  had  to  deal  with  that  and  keep  back,  if  he 
could,  those  sobs  that  were  wrenched  from  him  now  and 
again.  He  had  made  but  a  poor  beginning  in  his  journey, 
he  thought;  he  must  die  more  decently  than  that 

The  end  came  unexpectedly.  Just  when  he  thought  he 
had  gained  his  self-control  again,  so  as  to  make  no  sound 
at  any  rate,  the  hurdle  stopped.  He  clenched  his  teeth  to 
meet  the  dreadful  wrench  with  which  it  would  move  again; 
but  it  did  not.  Instead  there  was  a  man  down  by  him, 
untying  his  bonds.  He  lay  quite  still  when  they  were  un- 
done; he  did  not  know  which  limb  to  move  first,  and  he 
dreaded  to  move  any. 

"  Now  then,"  said  the  voice,  with  a  touch  of  compassion, 
he  thought. 

He  set  his  teeth,  gripped  the  arm  and  raised  himself — 
first  to  his  knees,  then  to  his  feet,  where  he  stood  swaying. 
An  indescribable  roar  ascended  steadily  on  all  sides;  but 
he  could  see  little  of  the  crowd  as  yet.  He  was  standing  in 
a  cleared  space,  held  by  guards.  A  couple  of  dozen  per- 
sons stood  here;  three  or  four  on  horseback;  and  one  of 
these  he  thought  to  be  my  lord  Shrewsbury,  but  he  was 
not  sure,  since  his  head  was  against  the  glare  of  the  sun. 
He  turned  a  little,  still  holding  to  the  man's  arm,  and  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  and  saw  a  ladder  behind  him;  he 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  that  its  head  rested  against  the 
cross-beam  of  a  single  gallows,  that  a  rope  hung  from  this 
beam,  and  that  a  figure  sitting  astride  of  this  cross-beam 
was  busy  with  this  rope.  The  shock  of  the  sight  cooled 
and  nerved  him;  rather,  it  drew  his  attention  all  from  him- 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  465 

self.  ...  He  looked  lower  again,  and  behind  the  gallows 
was  a  column  of  heavy  smoke  going  up,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  smoke  a  cauldron  hung  on  a  tripod.  Beside  the 
cauldron  was  a  great  stump  of  wood,  with  a  chopper  and 
a  knife  lying  upon  it.  ...  He  drew  one  long  steady  breath, 
expelled  it  again,  and  turned  back  to  my  lord  Shrewsbury. 
As  he  turned,  he  saw  him  make  a  sign,  and  felt  himself 
grasped  from  behind. 

Ill 

He  reached  at  last  with  his  hands  the  rung  of  the  ladder 
on  which  the  executioner's  foot  rested,  hearing,  as  he  went 
painfully  up,  the  roar  of  voices  wax  to  an  incredible  volume. 
It  was  impossible  for  any  to  speak  so  that  he  could  hear, 
but  he  saw  the  hands  above  him  in  eloquent  gesture,  and 
understood  that  he  was  to  turn  round.  He  did  so  cautiously, 
grasping  the  man's  foot,  and  so  rested,  half  sitting  on  a 
rung,  and  holding  it  as  well  as  he  could  with  his  two  hands. 
Then  he  felt  a  rope  pass  round  his  wrists,  drawing  them 
closer  together.  ...  As  he  turned,  the  roar  of  voices  died 
to  a  murmur;  the  murmur  died  to  silence,  and  he  under- 
stood and  remembered.  It  was  now  the  time  to  speak.  .  .  . 
He  gathered  for  the  last  time  all  his  forces  together.  With 
the  sudden  silence,  clearness  came  back  to  his  mind,  and  he 
remembered  word  for  word  the  little  speech  he  had  re- 
hearsed so  often  during  the  last  week.  He  had  learned  it 
by  heart,  fearful  lest  God  should  give  him  no  words  if  he 
trusted  to  the  moment,  lest  God  should  not  see  fit  to  give 
him  even  that  interior  consolation  which  was  denied  to  so 
many  of  the  saints — yet  without  which  he  could  not  speak 
from  the  heart.  He  had  been  right,  he  knew  now:  there 
was  no  religious  consolation;  he  felt  none  of  that  strange 
heart-shaking  ecstasy  that  had  transfigured  other  deaths 
like  his;  he  had  none  of  the  ready  wit  that  Campion  had 


466  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

showed.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  clear  October  sky  above 
him,  cut  by  the  roofs  fringed  with  heads  (a  skein  of  birds 
passed  slowly  over  it  as  he  raised  his  eyes)  ;  and,  beneath, 
that  irreckonable  pavement  of  heads,  motionless  now  as  a 
cornfield  in  a  still  evening,  one  glimpse  of  the  river — the 
river,  he  remembered  even  at  this  instant,  that  came  down 
from  Hathersage  and  Padley  and  his  old  home.  But  there 
was  no  open  vision,  such  as  he  had  half  hoped  to  see,  no  un- 
imaginable glories  looming  slowly  through  the  veils  in 
which  God  hides  Himself  on  earth,  no  radiant  face  smiling 
into  his  own — only  this  arena  of  watching  human  faces 
turned  up  to  his,  waiting  for  his  last  sermon.  .  .  .  He 
thought  he  saw  faces  that  he  knew,  though  he  lost  them 
again  as  his  eyes  swept  on — Mr.  Barton,  the  old  minister 
of  Matstead;  Dick;  Mr.  Bassett.  .  .  .  Their  faces  looked 
terrified.  .  .  .  However,  this  was  not  his  affair  now. 

As  he  was  about  to  speak  he  felt  hands  about  his  neck, 
and  then  the  touch  of  a  rope  passed  across  his  face.  For  an 
indescribable  instant  a  terror  seized  on  him;  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  set  his  teeth.  The  spasm  passed,  and  so  soon  as 
the  hands  were  withdrawn  again,  he  began: 

"  Good  people  " — (at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  high  and 
broken,  the  silence  became  absolute.  A  thin  crowing  of  a 
cock  from  far  off  in  the  country  came  like  a  thread  and 
ceased) — "Good  people:  I  die  here  as  a  Catholic  man, 
for  my  priesthood,  which  I  now  confess  before  all  the 
world."  (A  stir  of  heads  and  movements  below  distracted 
him.  But  he  went  on  at  once.)  "  There  have  been  alleged 
against  me  crimes  in  which  I  had  neither  act  nor  part, 
against  the  life  of  her  Grace  and  the  peace  of  her  domin- 
ions." 

"  Pray  for  her  Grace,"  rang  out  a  sharp  voice  below 
him. 


COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE!  467 

"  I  will  do  so  presently.  ...  It  is  for  that  that  I  am  said 
to  die,  in  that  I  took  part  in  plots  of  which  I  knew  nothing 
till  all  was  done.  Yet  I  was  offered  my  life,  if  I  would 
but  conform  and  go  to  church;  so  you  see  very  well " 

A  storm  of  confused  voices  interrupted  him.  He  could 
distinguish  no  sentence,  so  he  waited  till  they  ceased  again. 

"  So  you  see  very  well/'  he  cried,  "  for  what  it  is  that  I 
die.  It  is  for  the  Catholic  faith " 

"  Beat  the  drums !  beat  the  drums ! "  cried  a  voice. 
There  began  a  drumming;  but  a  howl  like  a  beast's  surged 
up  from  the  whole  crowd.  When  it  died  again  the  drum 
was  silent.  He  glanced  down  at  my  lord  Shrewsbury  and 
saw  him  whispering  with  an  officer.  Then  he  continued: 

"  It  is  for  the  Catholic  faith,  then,  that  I  die — that  which 
was  once  the  faith  of  all  England — and  which,  I  pray,  may 
be  one  day  its  faith  again.  In  that  have  I  lived,  and  in 
that  will  I  die.  And  I  pray  God,  further,  that  all  who 
hear  me  to-day  may  have  grace  to  take  it  as  I  do — as  the 
true  Christian  Religion  (and  none  other) — revealed  by  our 
Saviour  Christ." 

The  crowd  was  wholly  quiet  again  now.  My  lord  had 
finished  his  whispering,  and  was  looking  up.  But  the 
priest  had  made  his  little  sermon,  and  thought  that  he  had 
best  pray  aloud  before  his  strength  failed  him.  His  knees 
were  already  shaking  violently  under  him,  and  the  sweat 
was  pouring  again  from  his  face,  not  so  much  from  the 
effort  of  his  speech  as  from  the  pain  which  that  effort  caused 
him.  It  seemed  that  there  was  not  one  nerve  in  his  body 
that  was  not  in  pain. 

"  I  ask  all  Catholics,  then,  that  hear  me  to  join  with  me 
in  prayer.  .  .  .  First,  for  Christ's  Catholic  Church  through- 
out the  world,  for  her  peace  and  furtherance.  .  .  .  Next, 
for  our  England,  for  the  conversion  of  all  her  children; 
and,  above  all,  for  her  Grace,  my  Queen  and  yours,  that 


468  COME  RACK!     COME  ROPE! 

God  will  bless  and  save  her  in  this  world,  and  her  soul 
eternally  in  the  next.  For  these  and  all  other  such  matters 
I  will  beg  all  Catholics  to  join  with  me  and  to  say  the 
Our  Father;  and  when  I  am  in  my  agony  to  say  yet  another 
for  my  soul." 

"  Our  Father  .  .  ." 

From  the  whole  packed  space  the  prayer  rose  up,  in 
great  and  heavy  waves  of  sound.  There  were  cries  of 
mockery  three  or  four  times,  but  each  was  suddenly  cut 
off.  .  .  .  The  waves  of  sound  rolled  round  and  ceased,  and 
the  silence  was  profound.  The  priest  opened  his  eyes; 
closed  them  again.  Then  with  a  loud  voice  he  began  to 
cry: 

"  O  Christ,  as  Thine  arms  were  extended " 

He  stopped  again,  shaken  even  from  that  intense  point 
of  concentration  to  which  he  was  forcing  himself,  by  the 
amazing  sound  that  met  his  ears.  He  had  heard,  at  the 
close  of  the  Our  Father,  a  noise  which  he  could  not  inter- 
pret: but  no  more  had  happened.  But  now  the  whole 
world  seemed  screaming  and  swaying:  he  heard  the  trample 
of  horses  beneath  him — voices  in  loud  expostulation. 

He  opened  his  eyes ;  the  clamour  died  again  at  the  same 
instant.  .  .  .  For  a  moment  his  eyes  wandered  over  the 
heads  and  up  to  the  sky,  to  see  if  some  vision.  .  .  .  Then 
he  looked  down.  .  .  . 

Against  the  ladder  on  which  he  stood,  a  man's  figure  was 
writhing  and  embracing  the  rungs  kneeling  on  the  ground. 
He  was  strangely  dressed,  in  some  sort  of  a  loose  gown,  in 
a  tight  silk  night-cap,  and  his  feet  were  bare.  The  man's 
head  was  dropped,  and  the  priest  could  not  see  his  face. 
He  looked  beyond  for  some  explanation,  and  there  stood, 
all  alone,  a  girl  in  a  hooded  cloak,  who  raised  her  great 
eyes  to  his.  As  he  looked  down  again  the  man's  head  had 


COME  RACK!    COME  ROPE!  469 

fallen  back,  and  the  face  was  staring  up  at  him,  so  distorted 
with  speechless  entreaty,  that  even  he,  at  first,  did  not 
recognise  it.  ... 

Then  he  saw  it  to  be  his  father,  and  understood  enough, 
at  least,  to  act  as  a  priest  for  the  last  time. 

He  smiled  a  little,  leaned  his  own  head  forward  as  from 
a  cross,  and  spoke.  .  .  . 

"Absolve  te  a  peccatis  tuis  in  nomine  Patris  et  Filii  et 
Spiritus  Sancti.  .  .  ." 

IV 

He  only  awoke  once  again,  after  the  strangling  and  the 
darkness  had  passed.  He  could  see  nothing,  nor  hear, 
except  a  heavy  murmuring  noise,  not  unpleasant.  But 
there  was  one  last  Pain  now  into  which  all  others  had 
passed,  keen  and  cold  like  water,  and  it  was  about  his 
heart. 

"  O  Christ "  he  whispered,  and  so  died. 


THE  END 


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